A Closed Circle
by ArouraLeona
Summary: Three years later. The Fisher job lingers in Arthur's memories. His work has put him in contact with old 'friends', but there's one he hasn't seen. A new job, ordered by Saito, might change that. A/A. Chapter 11: Door Number Two
1. A Closed Circle

A Closed Circle

Chapter 1

He never said her name.

There was no reason for it. At least not at first. Since she was there in front of him, he had no reason to call out to her. To get her attention with anything other than a glance. When he trained her, it was only the two of them. Who else would he be talking to?

So he never said her name.

Then the others came. And there were enough people that it would make sense to point his words at her by using her name. But there weren't all that many. And anytime he worked with her, she knew when his words were for her and when they weren't.

It became almost like a jinx. A stupid thing. Jinx. He was rarely, if ever, a superstitious man. He hadn't even been superstitious when he was a boy, but especially after he learned of shared dreaming. When he discovered that dreams were what you made them. That the world was what you made it.

That nothing shaped your world without your awareness of it, in some way. If you were standing next to omega, you always knew there was an alpha there. Maybe not where or how, but you knew it was there. Cause and effect. Always logical. Always flawless. Even in its flaws.

But he still couldn't say it.

Though he always heard it when it was said. As if his ears were fine tuned to hear those specific syllables. The flow of the round and sharp vowels. The pause, like a fist in the gut, of the consonants.

But then none of them said her name much. Only Cobb. In a lecturing voice that he himself remembered. It was the father in him. The father and also the husband of a woman who lost herself. Someone who spent a lot of time trying to direct others to see the paths of their futures. Cobb used names in his lecturing voice so that they would know they were connected in some way to him and to the paths he created.

And Eames. In that flirtatious way he had.

Neither of which he could replicate. Wasn't something he _wanted_ to replicate. He wasn't the sort of person that took risks with the impossible on only his own mind. Especially not when all evidence pointed to the contrary. That was Cobb.

And that was her.

And that could be the reason he didn't say her name. Or even think it. Even when he stood next to her, or offered a rare smirk of approval. Because she was too like Cobb. And absolutely nothing like him. By the time she hit her late thirties she might be as equally mad as the man who had been a partner and brother to him for years.

But Cobb had been his partner. They had worked together. And with him, they had made the impossible possible. _Cobb_ made the impossible possible. He made the unlikely doable. The hard, workable. His margin of change was smaller than Cobb's.

Might her vision be greater too? Could she see in reality what he could only grasp at in dreaming?

It seemed impossible. It seemed unlikely.

Yet together they had seen the unlikely defeated and the impossible planted and grown into reality.

But he still never spoke her name.

She said his. Not often. Not always. And for some of the same reasons. It was unnecessary when it was just the two of them. She never yelled at him. Never lectured him as she occasionally did Cobb. Repeating that man's name so he would know without a doubt that he was the one in trouble.

And it had been past time that someone got to Cobb on that front. A fault of his, really. He knew the problem existed, and he had accepted it. But she saw the problem and made it her duty to fix it. Or at least mitigate the effects. Force Cobb to let go of what might hurt them.

She was … impressive. She carved the dreams up into patterns of her making, and she did the same thing for _them_. Not only their dreams. Somehow when she was near they all moved at her pace. Or a pace she could keep step with. With architects the dreamer had to direct the creation somewhat of the level. Do more than the tiny details. But not with her. Even outside the dream she was good at seeing into her subject.

Cobb was another good example of that. Within a few hours of meeting him, even before she knew very much of his history, she had a good grasp on his character. Which was exactly what you wanted in a good architect, but didn't always get. Intuition was often traded for imagination. And imagination was often called for before true comprehension of scope.

She managed to combine all three of those skills seamlessly. What she called 'pure creation' was actually that in her hands. She refused to be limited by the things that would hamper her in reality. Other architects thought it somehow more important to not stray as much from the real world when they played in the deeper levels of the mind.

She wasn't one of them.

God. When she smirked at him during their planning of his level and showed him the upper floors of the hotel. Which would probably never be used by the mark or the subject, and which might or might not trap projections. But was a complete and honest nod to his teachings. A ballroom of sorts, laid out as the devil's tuning fork. She also mentioned the Penrose staircase she added for him in the stairwell.

She laughed and started talking about all the other visual paradoxes she considered including. She told him his level should be more complex because it suited him. Straight lines on first glance, and depth on the second.

He didn't laugh. He did smile. But … but that was a day that stood out for him. When the whole team met in his hotel lobby later for a meeting he found it hard to stray from her. He looked where she looked. Because he knew there were other parts she created for him that he would probably never learn of. He saw a picture in her workspace once of the 2D cone of concentric circles. He wondered if she'd use it.

He wondered what those personal aspects were in the other two levels. For Yusuf and Eames. What she would have created for Saito. What she would have created for Cobb. What she was creating now.

He knew she was working for and with others. He hadn't seen her in a while. And the pressure of that weighed on him. The memory of all the times he never said her name. Of all those small glimpses. Returned and unknown.

That almost suicidal curiosity. Not everyone was a father like Cobb. Not every employer she had was nonviolent like Saito. If she had been on the Cobol job. Any other job they'd done in the previous five years...

He _worried_. And that was unnecessary. And distracting.

His reaction to her when they worked together was understandable. Eames and projections notwithstanding, jobs didn't often put him in the way of women his age. Not many women at all actually.

Eames had seen her recently. He found out when he and Eames did a job in Taiwan together. A busy place. Fantastic with detail to enliven a dream. Eames had told him she seemed well. Better than before. That her clothes were more expensive. That she was eating more. He had said the last with an odd quirk of his lips. An innuendo, and he could guess what, but it stuck with him.

Eames had also said she worked with Yusuf. Or had dealt with Yusuf for some unknown reason right before the job they had together. She told Eames that Yusuf was doing as good as he ever did. And that he'd developed some sort of new compound, which had netted him a bit more attention than he desired for a bit. But currently – three months ago at least – Yusuf was well.

It was inevitable, he supposed, that they would work together again in the future. There were only so many people who did what they did. And only so many people who were as good at it. But he hadn't seen her yet.

He still had no reason to say her name.

Cobb had left their world all together, and Saito wouldn't have run into her. Saito's world and her's were too far apart for them to come into contact.

At least that's what he thought. When he got the call from Saito he wasn't exactly surprised. Three years was a long time, but extractors weren't the sort of people you needed on call every single day. They were a special service reserved as a final effort for a goal.

But he wasn't needed for the same job as before, not exactly, Saito told him. He was needed as a researcher.

It intrigued him enough to agree to the offer. Researchers were a dime a dozen. In some way the request had to involve shared dreaming or else Saito would have found someone else. Someone cheaper. He might be one of the best researchers out there, and excellent when running point for a con, but he was hardly the only one. And for normal jobs there were plenty of others to choose from.

Saito gave him an address. Different from the corporate building he knew Saito used before. Not even close to it, if he was recalling correctly the location of Saito's offices. And he was. But Saito told him it was his main office. And that he could use any name he wished as long as he told the receptionist he came with the research proposal.

It wasn't until he arrived at the building that he began to understand why he might have been chosen. As he approached the building from two blocks away, where he left his car, he recognized it immediately. Not the building itself, but the design. The impression. The _idea_ of the place.

The building was hers. And he was at once confused and enlightened by the revelation.

Inside the effect was even more pronounced. He could see her in the clean lines. In the colors. In the flow and moment of traffic on the floor. The elegant efficiency. Minimalism without losing heart. A well executed mold of her design and Saito's style.

His eyes wandered as the concierge directed him to the correct floor and the receptionist took his name and business with the director. Where the main lobby was slightly more generic, Saito's office was a vision of personality.

The outside was modern: hard angles, sharp curves. This space retained the clean lines but with a more traditional coloring and décor. Outside the light fixtures were their own tiny, illuminated pieces of art. Inside they blended in; light came from inside the walls, and in a few places underneath the floor.

Outside the walls were vast windows broken by swooping lines. Inside there were no windows at all. Only the light. And the art.

Saito caught him staring as he directed him into the office. "She does good work."

"Yeah, she does."

"Have you spoken with her?"

"No. It's safer not to meet unless we have to."

"Ah," Saito's face folded into lines of confusion, "but she mentioned to me some of the others..."

He lifted his chin in comprehension, "We'll come together on jobs. Our names get around, and we'll turn to others we trust if offered a choice in the team, but only then. I haven't been on the same jobs. I haven't contacted her.

"You have seen her." It wasn't a question. The building made it an unquestionable fact.

"Yes, indeed. She is under contract with me."

"For the building."

"As an architect. I work with no others." The older man smiled. "She does very good work."

"Some of the best I've ever seen," he agreed without showing his confusion. Saito had hired her on as a full-time architect on an extraction team. Why would he even need such a thing, and why would he pick her? Talent aside.

"A building of your own. You seem to be doing well. Better than when we first met."

Saito chuckled at that. Their first meeting hadn't been the best. "Yes. Our market share has increased. Competition in the industry is … vigorous. A pleasant change from the past."

He allowed the corner of his lips to twitch. Pleasant change... nicely said. But Saito was moving on to the job at hand. What he should have asked about first if he weren't distracted by her ephemeral presence around him.

But his attention snapped back in an instant when he heard it. When he realized what the job was.

" … dne disappeared."

"Disappeared." He managed to contain the feelings the word stirred up in him.

"It was only a day, but it was an important one. She informed me that she cannot recall the day. This concerns me. As someone contracted to me, she knows a great deal about this company. Enough to destroy what I built."

He put a wall around his memories. A wall between the past and the possibility of what this job would entail. "What do you need." His words, again, were not a question, but a statement.

"I need you to find who took her and what was done. If she truly does not remember, or if she lies." Saito lowered a shoulder and straightened his spine. "She suspects a watcher. Before she was taken, she saw a man near her more than once. Her contract is an expensive one, and it will not benefit me to lose her. I also had her watched, and my men also saw someone following her. I had her moved. Gave her protection.

"But I believe she evaded her protection. Slipped away to her own desires. It is during then that she was taken. You will tell me if it was against her will. You will find out _who_ ordered her capture. And you will take care of the problem."

The bottoms of his feet went numb. His vest felt tight.

"You are, I was told, the best at your work."

"I am." The best at finding. The best at facts. The best at the certain things. The definite things. At hiding. At death.

Saito was asking him to kill the person who defied him by taking her. A job he would do with pleasure. Saito was asking him to kill her if she betrayed him. A job he he couldn't do at all.

Saito stood, and he did likewise. "Where is she? I'll have to talk to her. Get her impressions and what memories she has concerning the event."

"She is here."

"Here? As in this building here? Or in Tokyo?"

"She owns a suite in this building. It was part of her compensation for the design."

"It's lovely work," he couldn't help but point out.

"Yes. I am very pleased."

"Why, if you don't mind me asking, did you pick someone so young to do this for you? She couldn't have been out of school for very long."

"She was not. I staged a competition for young architects. Invited her to join. I would not have picked her if she was not the best, but I provided the opportunity. She created reality in a dream. I wanted to see her create a dream in reality."

"Yeah. She did that."

"Yes she did." Saito directed him to the elevator. Indicated the buttons for the floors. "The top two floors are keyed. I am the top. She is the suit directly below me."

"And you have a key for her floor." Again, not a question. He could see the key in Saito's hand.

"Yes. For emergencies only. As she has one for my floor as well."

Emergencies. He felt his jaw tighten. No way to forget their first meeting. No way not to remember at that moment the dream that copied one of Saito's own properties. The building. The love-nest he and Cobb had trapped him in.

This was a far more elegant solution. She was _contracted_ to the man. If the bastard …

He eliminated the thought. As of yet there was no clear evidence. No need to jump to conclusions before he had any true information.

Saito slid the keycard into the correct reader – second from the top – and the elevator began its ascent. Chimed when it reached the correct floor. Whooshed with the change in air pressure as the doors opened onto a hall. A hall that looked even more like her than anything he'd seen so far.

Saito pressed a new button. This one sang out to alert her of their presence in her home. And then Saito called her name to tell her who was there, waiting.

His attention, as always, caught on the name. He rarely ever heard it. Almost never thought it. He thought instead of the color of her eyes. The expressions on her lips. The changing tones of her voice. The sound of her steps …

No. That was happening now.

"Saito?" that voice called through the wood as he heard the tumble of a lock. "What's wrong?"

The door opened, and it was no longer a memory that he saw. But her.

"Arthur?" Surprise with only the slightest hint of warmth. "Ah. So you're the one brought in to fix my little difficulty."

"Yeah. I am."

"He must be seen to leave," Saito told her. And him. "But he will come back tonight. Through the private entrance. And he will work here. So as not to be seen."

"And to make sure I stay here, right. I get it. Guess I won't be ordering food up. Enough portions for two people would stand out." Her frustration was clear. She wasn't yelling like she had with Cobb, but he recognized the tone in her voice. Her obvious disdain amused him, as always.

"So that would be what … my invitation to leave?"

She smiled. "Your invitation to come back. Leaving was clearly an order."

Saito passed him the key card and walked back to the elevator. He would go down alone. Visiting Saito's office was already enough to connect him if someone was watching her. The old man was right; better to leave and come back than to stay and lead to uncomfortable questions.

"I'll be back in eight hours. Where's the private entrance?"

Her smile altered in a subtle way. Not in the lips, but in the eyes. "You already know where."

His forehead creased and an eyebrow went up. "Are you serious?"

"Of course. I'll see you at 9." She took the card from his fingers and gave him a different one, which had been resting in a small cupboard beside the door. "That card will get you in the doors."

"Which doors?"

"All of them." And her smile changed again. In a way that made all the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He left her suite. Left her floor. Left her building.

He had still not said her name.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: My first leap into this fandom. I usually write for manga, but a comment on another story led me to playing here. I hope you've enjoyed. Next chapter will hopefully be up soon. Please leave any comments or reviews. I will accept any valid critique of my work, and feel free to flame as well if you feel that's necessary. Thank you.<p> 


	2. Truth and Lies

A Closed Circle

Chapter 2

Truth And Lies

He found the private entrance. The private door. The private stairwell. The private elevator. No problem for him. It was in the same place as the one she designed for his dream.

Exhilarating and alarming. All at once. It twisted his stomach and made bile rise in his throat. One glance at one thing. Two reactions. Almost diametrically opposed.

As a team they had taught her to trust no one. To sever herself from them. To live her life only for herself so she wouldn't get caught in theirs. But she must … if it wasn't trust, then she at the very least failed to separate herself. With Saito as her employer, okay, but this was part of _him_. It could get her killed.

And that caused the alarm.

There was no need for her to use it. Unless there was.

Which brought on the exhilaration.

He arrived at her floor. At her door. Rang the bell as Saito had before him. But he did not call her name through the walls. And she did not hesitate to open her door to him. To verify his identity.

A dangerous thing if she were being followed. A stupid thing.

An exhilarating thing.

Remembrance and … it had to be … Remembrance and trust.

"You're late."

"I said eight hours."

"And I said nine o'clock."

"It was 28 after."

"I still said nine." She waved him in with a cockeyed smirk that mirrored his own. "Want something to drink? Food? I'm sure I can come up with something food-like."

"No thank you. I ate during my wait." He nodded at the walls, "I meant to tell you right off. Before you started in with the nagging. The building is edifying. It's beautiful."

She grinned despite the slight dig. "Ah, thanks. It was so amazing to design. To watch it grow. I couldn't do everything I could do in the dream, of course, but … this has a satisfaction all its own. It didn't form because I wanted it, but because everyone wanted it. It required a great deal of money and time.

"It needed more than an architect and a dreamer, but most of the time the slow unveiling of my vision was equal to that feeling of instant satisfaction. Sometimes even better," she laughed.

She put a hand inches from his elbow to direct him to a chair.

"This is cozy compared to the rest of the place," he commented. Unnecessarily. He wasn't one for small talk. Usually.

"It's something Cobb said about him and Mal. They both wanted a house, but they liked modern style buildings. That in reality they couldn't have both, but that they could create a space for themselves like that in the dream. I thought it was brilliant." She waved a hand for him to get up and led him to what he assumed was the back of the suite. Opened a door.

And showed him a garden.

"It's more like a greenhouse than a real yard. But the grass is real, and so are all the other plants." She brushed her hand on a frond of a dwarf palm, and this smile was soft. "Not sure how long I can be patient enough to take care of it, but for now it's … it makes me happy."

She sat in one of the two chairs in the corner of the garden. It almost felt like falling. His chest constricted when he sat. The walls were solid, almost seamless, glass. He could see the lights of other buildings. The sparkle of cars below. Far below. And it felt like there was nothing between him and that drop.

"Invigorating, right?" She was staring at his profile; he could feel her eyes. But – even for her – he couldn't look away from the view.

"That's one way to put it, sure."

She laughed, and it finally pulled him away from the invisible glass and the feeling of freefall.

"How safe is your suite? Can we talk freely here?" He donned the mask of his business persona.

"In case someone is watching, you mean?"

"Anyone. In case anyone is watching. Even Saito."

She nodded. "The whole suite should be fine. Safe. But this room in particular is completely clear. Except for the windows of course, but we can turn the chairs away and no one will see us talk."

"Even Saito," he repeated through clinched teeth.

"Yeah. I designed the whole thing, but me and a single contractor built this room. And I supervised the entire time. It's clean."

"I need you to be honest with me. Completely honest." This was a place, he knew, that he could say her name. A natural time. To enforce the importance. To drive home his point. But it did not pass his lips. "I can't protect you if you're lying. Saito asked me to deal with the people who are watching you. With the people who abducted you."

"Right..."

"He also told me to deal with _you_ if you were aware of and working with those people."

"I guessed as much."

"You did?"

"Well, it was obvious wasn't it? I would be a weak link in his business. He would have to take some sort of action. I was surprised that action was you, though."

"I'm well known for my work," he explained, "and Saito knows me. Even if he has no reason to trust me. If you helped those people. If you had a part in it, _tell me_. I'll find a way to get you out."

"Without killing me."

"Yeah. Alive and safe. I can do that."

"Why would you?" she asked. More curious than surprised at the offer. She saw through him, as she always managed to see through anything. Like he was the glass that surrounded the room.

So he didn't answer. Because he had no words powerful enough to hide the truth she found in him. The truth that he couldn't do it. That he just couldn't do it.

"Did you know? That's all you have to answer. Were you a part of it?"

She looked him in the eyes, and her tongue darted over her lips. "No. I wasn't. I didn't even know it happened until I came to, lying on the floor of my flat in London. Dried blood in my hair and a large bruise on my cheekbone. Rope burns on my wrists and ankles. If they'd left me whole and put me in my bed I might have never known."

He believed her. A short time on a job together three years ago or not, he would know if she were lying, and she wasn't. "Why were you in London?"

A bit of her humor returned. "I have a building at the beginning of construction there. I like to be at the site for as much of the process as possible."

That took him off point, "A second building so soon?"

"Third," and this time the smile was proud and touched with ego. "I have one in Dubai too."

"I'm impressed. That's quite an accomplishment for someone your age."

"Because that's not patronizing at all. Thanks."

He changed the subject. "Who have you worked with recently? You've been with Saito for all of the three years?" He immediately wished he'd chosen different words. "been with" reminded him of other things. Other fleeting thoughts.

"Only two and a half. He hired me when he offered me the opportunity to design this place. I felt like I couldn't say no. And I guess it helped that I didn't want to say no either. Like you said, 'nothing else like it' … I just couldn't let go. Seeing my vision in reality helps, but I need the dreaming."

"Yeah, that's normal. The following is recent, so it's going to be one of your last jobs that the problem came up. Who was the last job?"

"An assistant at Finnik, Brown, and Obara. A law firm with a lawsuit filed against us from an anonymous plaintiff. Well, it's a civil suit, and there are several plaintiffs, but the whole list is being withheld from our legal team. The judge ruled that they deserved anonymous status based on justifiable fear of reprisal from the company. Which led us to believe they were former employees."

"What was the lawsuit for?"

"Corporate manslaughter. The accusers claim the company participated in, was responsible for, and/or ordered the deaths of 14 people on a train in Germany. Due to a faulty electric system. It was hit by a train traveling perpendicular to the first train's path. The uninhibited train collided with the stalled train. The lines didn't function properly; didn't alert the whole system that there was a problem because the system itself was broken. There were fail safes set by the programmers, in a system we were no way in charge of, but those were unable to operate without power. There were generators, but those too failed."

"Was it purposeful?"

"I deal with the company's extractions only, and I participate in almost none of those except as an architect in the early stages. I know nothing of the other extracurriculars done by other off-the-books employees. But I will say it seems unlikely. The accident itself damaged the company's reputation. Something Saito would not condone. He also goes more often for diversion and altered perceptions than death. Death is suspicious, he said to me once, the quirks of business are everyday." Her expression changed to a bemused frown. "At least I think that's what he said. It was two and a half years ago."

"And the extraction meant to find...?"

"The names of the plaintiffs. If we had those we would know the reason for the accusation."

"Did you succeed?"

"No. The assistant was blocked."

"Blocked?"

She looked at him. Surprised. "You haven't run into it yet? God. We've hit it almost every other job for a year now. But then our marks are usually from law firms or CEOs of known businesses. Makes sense that they'd go for top notch security."

"What's a block?" Another time he could have said her name. To get her back on track. But then he wasn't exactly the epitome of professionalism either. And the name remained unspoken.

"It's like running into a series of brick walls." Her hands moved in vague gestures. "We can get in, but the subject is hidden. His own safe room. A place he or she cannot be touched. Or even found. The projections are mute. They can see, discover, attack, but they can't give up information. And by being mute themselves, the slightest word from us points the whole hoard our direction. _None_ of those jobs have ended in success for us.

"I'm surprised Saito didn't kick me out the door eight months ago."

"The extractor's responsible for the information. You're the architect. It's not your job."

"No, but I'm the face of the team for him. Half the time. More than half the time, he doesn't know anyone on the team but me. Since he went under with us he has a better understanding of the mind's vulnerabilities. What he doesn't know, no one else can take from him."

"Clever."

"Yeah, but limited. And if either of us are taken, we will give the other up. I'm the one he trusts, and he's the one who holds my contract. What he's afraid of in this, I am too. If I gave him up, I condemned myself as well. Not just on the assistant job, but on everything I've done for him. Even Fisher. Even all of you.

"It's only been a few days, Arthur, and we don't know what's happened yet. I was already planning on calling you. All of you. But Saito obviously beat me to it."

His nostrils flared, and his flight instinct kicked in, tensing his calf muscles. Knotting his shoulders. "Do you think you've compromised everything?"

"I don't know. I don't _know_. But I've worked with Eames three times now. With Yusuf two. With Saito over a dozen. Once with you. Once with Cobb. But with Cobb it was so complicated. We went so deep together, and my mind was so wrapped around his personal madness. I still hear him and Mal in my dreams sometimes. When I still dream. Rarely, but more than any other dream. I hear their whispered promises. The memory of the two of them still lives in me, and it would be easy to find. Any of you would be easy to find.

"The people I work with now are more fleeting. I don't get as involved. The jobs are shorter. Easier. And like I said before, I'm less involved." She turned her eyes. Her whole head. Away from him. Away from his piercing stare. Her lips compressed.

"My instinct. My first desire would be to wrap you up. To hide you. The five of you. To protect you. But by doing that I'm also telling anyone smart enough to get in me that you five are the most important people. My most important secret. The ones they're looking for … even if you weren't on that job."

"We don't know for sure it's that company yet," he reminded her. "That it's that job."

"_You're _not. And I get that. Your purpose is to find out exactly what's going on, but I work differently. I know it's them. It has to be one of the failed extractions, and they were the most recent. If the others could or wanted to come after me, they would have done it six months ago."

"And that job was?"

"CFO of EPA."

He gave her a slightly blank look. "The environmental protection agency has a CEO?"

She laughed, "No, and it's clever marketing, I'll freely admit. The Equitable Petroleum Alliance. A privately owned company with three owners. That's what makes it an 'alliance'. It's also what makes the CFO and not the CEO the most important person in the company. The CEO deals with three split visions of the company's future. The CFO deals with the profits. We were being hit with a massive price hike and were being stiffed in negotiations for alternate pricing."

"Why have you ruled them out? They would certainly be powerful enough."

She made a face that sent a slight chill down his spine. It was so unlike her. Unlike everything he knew of her that it almost hurt to look at the twist of her skin. "Because they wouldn't let me forget after. Those bastards are ruthless. They wouldn't knock me out and beat me bloody. They'd make sure I didn't forget a thing."

His hands managed not to coil into fists. His face retained its mask.

"There's another reason. The job I missed. Because I was taken. That job was to hit the first chair litigator. Obara. He'd be blocked too, no doubt. If the assistant was blocked there was no question, but we had to try."

"That's good. I'll check everything on the law firm tonight. If I think it's someone else, we'll go through past marks. Is your wifi encrypted?"

"Yes. You can use computer."

"No. I'll use my own. Tell me the password."

She rolled her eyes and pulled a pen from her pocket. She wrote a series of numbers on the palm of his hand. It was the first time he felt her skin in three years. Lightening lit his nerves. Sizzled in his ears.

She was unfazed.

"Well, I'll let you get to work. And try not to suck all the bandwidth. I'll be in my room if you need me. You can use the one through that door," she pointed to a door on the far side of the garden.

He nodded and went back into the hall for his bag. He had to go in the garden to get into his room. He couldn't find the door from anywhere else. Her suite was a maze. It suited her.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: It will be AA. Eventually. I promise. Thank you for the reviews before (I pm'ed you both I think!) and thank you for all those others who read chapter one! I'm glad you came back again! Please read the next chapter when it appears.

And if you can bring yourself to: Please review! Thanks!


	3. Connections

A Closed Circle

Chapter 3

Connections

The phone rang in the late hours of the night, early hours of the morning. He was still awake. Still working. The well-furnished guest room had an extension that he could have picked up to save her from waking, but he couldn't announce his presence to anyone.

He heard a door open in another part of the suite and the slow shuffling walk of someone still half a sleep. He was surprised that she didn't have an extension in her bedroom. But then he hadn't seen her bedroom. A phone might disrupt the décor in some way.

Curiosity got the better of him. When the phone stopped ringing and her tired muttering penetrated the walls, he stood up and went to see what was going on.

She stood with her forehead against the wall. Orange, pulsing lights from the roof on the shorter building next door revealed her and hid her in a steady rhythm. "Yeah," she said, her voice slurred. "Yeah mama, I know. Yes. Okay, Yes. Mama, please, I'm tired. It's 3 A.M. here. … Because I'm in Tokyo, remember? That's where I live now."

In the distorted light he couldn't tell the color of her robe. It looked orange, but it could very well be white or some other light color that didn't interfere with the orange of the lights outside. Just as he couldn't tell the color of her robe, he couldn't see the expression on her face. Partially hidden by the wall. Partially hidden by the shadows.

But she sounded … resigned. And a little sad.

"No mama, he's not. He's gone remember? We talked about this. … Sure. Sure." She pressed her fingers to her eyes and lowered herself to sit on the floor. Still against the wall. "Yeah. Of course I am mama. I love you. Please take care of yourself. Tell Mercy I said hi, okay? Of course. Yes. Love you. Bye."

She pressed a button on the phone an lifted the hand over her eyes to massage her temples. She opened her eyes. She gasped. "Jesus! I didn't see you there."

"Sorry. The phone rang. I thought it could be related. I heard ..."

"It was my mom." The set of her chin was defiant.

"I gathered."

The defiance wilted and only the resignation was left behind. "I'm sure you did. She and my dad were in a car accident a few years ago. Dad died. She suffered massive brain trauma. It's like early onset Alzheimer's. Some days she remembers everything. Some days nothing. Usually it's somewhere in between."

He nodded. None of this was new to him. He had done her background check when she first joined. But she didn't need to be told that now. And he was positive she knew it already. She knew what he was.

"I'm sorry. That must be difficult for both of you."

"Not really so difficult if I put her with nurses, even if Mercy is a good nurse, and then ran to the other side of the world," she reprimanded herself. As if he weren't even a part of the conversation. "But then I wouldn't want to get her any more involved in this business than she already is by virtue of being my mom. And by _doing_ this I'm able to easily pay for any treatment she needs. And for her living. We still have some of dad's insurance money, but I used most of it paying my tuition. I knew the only way I could keep her in the nice place she was in was to get a job that could pay for it … so I tried to finish school as fast as I could."

He nodded again. It wasn't really a comment that demanded response. So he remained silent. She sighed. Pushed hard on her temples, and levered herself up from the floor. He might have offered a hand, but she was up before he managed to walk to her side.

"You've been up for hours," she pointed her chin at his rumpled shirt, sleeves turned up. But still tucked in. He had that at least. "I can't imagine you've eaten anything. And I never even offered you anything to drink." She led him down a series of hallways that opened up into a kitchen.

"You did actually," he mentioned, but he didn't think she heard.

"Do you plan on sleeping at some point?" she asked with a yawn. "Or do you need coffee?"

"Coffee. And thank you."

"Find anything yet?" She flipped a switch on a shiny complicated machine and started pouring things into it. Reached over and pulled out two perfect, white mugs. Closed and opened her eyes and grunted. Waking up.

"There are rumors of contacts with other extractors. If they've seen extraction before that would explain their protections against you. It would also help them in backtracking through what was left over of the dream and finding its origins. But then the same thing could be said of your fuel company.

"The law firm is promising, but I can't say for certain yet if they're the cause. I need to know more."

"What more do you need?"

"Ideally I'd like to drop down into your mind. In case your subconscious retains something of your abduction than you, yourself recall."

"We considered that," she told him, "but, for the same reasons he feared what they might have discovered, Saito is reluctant to have anyone go under with me."

"You know that much?" Surely not. She was a contracted employee, not …

"I know enough."

"Well," he said with a sneer, "what Saito doesn't know won't hurt him. The case is in my room. An hour should be enough since you know me and know what I'm doing. No one will come here in the next five minutes?"

"Not at this time at night. Not unless it's an emergency."

"Saito has a key for the floor," he reminded her.

"He gave that to you. And he's never had a key for the door." That statement reassured him. And not only about the extraction.

"Meet me in your garden," he told her as he stood up to walk to his room.

"What about the coffee," he heard her grumble as he left. "Dammit Arthur..."

He liked it when she said his name. Even in frustration. Maybe especially when in frustration. Her eyes filled with fire. Even when not in front of her, he could still see them. Unseen himself, he allowed a grin as he opened the door and pulled the case from where he stored it underneath the bed.

There were two mugs of coffee in her hands when she came in the door. He was kneeling by the small cafe table. Activating the device. Readying the IVs. He heard the chirp of a button as she crossed the threshold and watched as curtains slid to cover the windows that exposed the room.

"Useful," he commented.

"I come in at night sometimes. Not always decent. The curtains are better than having to get dressed to go to a room in my own home."

Not something he should think about. Not now. Now was work.

"Sit." He took one of the mugs and downed half of it in a gulp. It was hot, strong, and cleared his vision in one instant. "Ready?" She gave him a sharp nod. He pressed the button.

The last thing he thought before the sleep took him was that it had been a while since he was in her mind.

00000000000000000

Creation wasn't his strong point, but he was experienced enough that he could build a world when he had to. And in this case, he used a level they had shared before. He led her past the infinite staircase, and up a true set of stairs to reach the elevator.

There was a faint chuckle from behind him. "My subconscious is still polite."

"For now. It'll be different when we get to the top."

"The top?"

"Yeah. There's a safe room in the penthouse."

Her steps moved faster. She caught up with him. Passed him. Beat him to the elevator. "Floor 'P'..."

"Yes."

"So creative. 'P' for penthouse. Not even a hint of misdirection."

"Shouldn't be necessary here. No reason to alarm your projections if you feel no alarm yourself. And if I don't do anything overt to stir them up."

"So, taking my innermost secrets isn't overt?"

He went still. Turned to her. "I'll only read the parts about the attack," a place he could say her name. For reassurance. For connection. "You can find the right page. I won't see anything you don't want me to see."

A failed opportunity. Once again.

"If I'm blocking out the attack, naturally I don't want anyone to see that either."

"Yes but that's something I need to see. The whole reason I'm here. That I have to have to do my job. And for you to do yours too."

"You know," she started, shooting a look at him over her shoulder, "I'm surprised you came. I was surprised to see Eames too the first time. I thought the plan was to stay as far apart as possible. I never expected to see any of you again. Even after Saito hired me."

He shrugged. Thought nothing of the fact that she had effectively erased him from her life. "It's a small business. We're bound to run into each other at some point. And it's good to know who else is out there. But," he added, "there was no guarantee you would stay with the work. There are plenty of legitimate ways to use a skill like yours. With the military or any other branch of the government. Of any government. And plenty of private industries make use of shared dreaming as well. Lots of hospitals. Psychiatric facilities.

"Safer for all of us to lay low after that one."

A smirk as she walked. "No way I could leave this behind." The hallway led to a door. She put a hand against it. Pressed. But it would not open. Her mind, but his world.

He lifted her hand from the door. Held it for maybe a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "Even if you could break it, that would draw attention we don't need." A smile just touched his mouth. He pulled a key card from his jacket pocket. Slid it into the reader.

The door opened with a click. A sound of unsealing.

The penthouse was one open room with a small closet in the center. The closet door was framed in reenforced steel. There was a hand-print scanner to the right. "Your hand," he told her.

This door unclicked a half dozen times. And the sound of sealed air escaping was twice as loud. A safe sat on a table in the middle of the room. She touched the box itself. Stroked the key pad. Entered a series of ten numbers. Opened it.

The stack of papers inside was an inch thick. Did she really have that much she wanted to hide?

Saito, a man who ran an international company and who had multiple affairs with 'unavailable' women, only sealed a small envelope. She had a book.

"What was limbo like?" his voice was even.

She was rifling through papers. "I couldn't begin to describe it to you." She put the top half of the stack back into the safe. Then another chunk. She was holding maybe 50 pages. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted in surprise. Her fingers clinched in what was similar to fear.

His mouth opened. To say her name. To bring her back from whatever hole her thoughts had dropped her into.

"Jesus," she whispered before he got the chance. "I didn't need to see that printed on paper." She threw what looked like ten pages at least into the safe as if they were something disgusting. If they hurt her to touch.

"Here," she beckoned him over. He stood behind her. Reading over shoulder.

There wasn't much, not compared to the large stack returned to the safe, but they looked through the five pages of documents left. After the second page she handed him the stack and pushed her way past him. Leaving the closet.

The reason why was somewhat obvious. She'd gotten only a glimpse of the people who took her. And recognized none of them. But she came to for a brief moment between unconsciousness and the sleeping brought on by extraction. She recognized a man. The voice. The touch of his hands on her wrist.

An extractor from the job on the assistant. And a man she'd had a brief affair with during that time.

He heard something slamming into the wall outside. Her foot maybe. He heard low ranting. A few words laced with danger and violence. Turned back to the pages.

All this lent more credibility to the law firm theory.

The extraction against her failed. Good news. Extractors themselves were notoriously difficult when someone attempted an extraction against them. There were the totems for one. And for another they were all understandably suspicious of any encounter.

Her subconscious logged four foreign beings in her mind at the time of extraction. All of them male, but the physical descriptions were limited. Too generic. Four males, all white, all of average height, somewhere between late twenties and late thirties. All speaking English. Two had darker hair, between brown and black. Two had lighter hair, between brown and blond. On the surface it was useless information, but the depth of the descriptions of what she _did_ know. Her impressions. She surprised him.

And helped explain the large stack of papers. What some people only vaguely remembered, few facts and even fewer details, she remembered in exquisite detail. Her mind was organized and trained to absorb what she saw and heard.

The only clear information she recorded of that event was the description of the head extractor. The one she had slept with, no matter how briefly. One small notation at the bottom of the fourth page mentioned how it wasn't surprising that he failed to take information from her. That he _always_ thought he was better than he actually was.

He held back laughter. That spoke volumes. Even if the emphasis was his. It released some of the pressure that had built up since his eyes scanned over the word 'affair'.

The fifth page. He wasn't sure he'd tell her about the fifth page. What she didn't remember wouldn't hurt her like it would if she did.

He finished reading. Put the papers back. Shut the safe. Left the room. Shut that door. Finally turned to her. "We have something like 20 minutes left. Maybe you should take a walk." Her eyes were narrow. Her face was flush with anger. Her mouth moved over silent curses, and he wondered at what they contained.

Her only acknowledgment of his suggestion was to stomp outside and lock him in.

Well. It would keep her projections away from him. And no doubt they were as riled as she was. It would keep him from asking uncomfortable questions. At least until they woke.

He thought back over the contents of her subconscious memory. He came to a few conclusions.

The law firm was responsible.

The previous job had been a set up.

The set up had been preplanned even before she found a team for the job. There was probably more than one person she would have recognized who went to Finnik, Brown, and Obara with information.

He'd have to suggest in a way that did not alarm her, doing something to increase protection for her mother.

He was going to have words with the man who betrayed her.

Not that their relationship had been anything other than casual. He hadn't gone back to read those parts of her. It was too invasive. She might not forgive him. And there were no notations of the depth of their relationship in the section he had access to.

Casual or not. The whole thing was a betrayal and a deception. An everyday occurrence in their business. The very foundation of their business, in fact. Something that didn't ordinarily necessitate death, but in this case …

He was willing to be flexible.

The drug was wearing off. He felt the beginnings of waking. As the dream faded around him, he wondered at all those other secrets in her safe. All those other things she felt she needed to hide.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Again thank you for the reviews. And to all those not reviewing ... why aren't you! :D I hope you all enjoyed chapter 3. And seriously. It does get more AA later on ... and there are other characters too.


	4. My Old and Rare

A Closed Circle

Chapter 4

My Old and Rare

He woke to her ripping off the tape on her wrist and throwing what was left of her coffee into the nearest plant. The coffee was probably still hot. It had only been five minutes. She turned to him. He was still sitting. In a slight amount of awe at her rage. Righteous though it was.

She had a knack for righteous anger.

"I am going to drag him into a dream, tie him up, torture him for a _decade_, and then send him into limbo to die a slow death. You find him and let me do that." She swept out of the room in a whirl of her pale green robe and her brown hair.

He struggled with his reactions. On one hand she was angry enough with this man to want him dead. By her own hands even. That was good. He approved of that. On the other, she was _very_ angry. So angry that it expressed a deep sense of betrayal. From someone she trusted.

Maybe not such a casual relationship, then.

He stood. Shook off his thoughts. They were unproductive, and he needed productivity. He dicked around in the garden. Putting the equipment up. Considering their options as he did. Taking his time because a plan wasn't coming as easily to him as it should.

"Go to _sleep_ Arthur!" she yelled from somewhere on the other side of the suite. "Seriously. It's late. Do not make me drug you. Because I will. I'm that irritated."

He cut his eyes to the door and sent his own unvoiced complaints her way. But in the end he complied with her order. Her house; her rules.

For now, at least.

* * *

><p>He woke with one thought in the forefront of his mind: do I tell her?<p>

Before the law firm's team had extracted her – something they would know was difficult even before they went in – they had gone to her mother. Sick as she was and with a damaged mind. A damaged memory. A damaged heart. The extraction had probably been easy.

The man had the gall to speak of this when he worked against her. To build a place, a home, modeled after her mother's memories. To bring a forger in to impersonate her mother. To try and trap her with a combination of her love for her mother and the initial feelings of trust for him.

But she hadn't trusted him. Because she had heard him before going under. Felt him. Because her body was tense, even with the drugs. Because she went in alarmed.

They hadn't taken her totem away. Not every shared dreamer used them. Usually those who spent anytime with Cobb did. And there were a few others. But it wasn't a universal practice. There were other tests. Memory tests. Drugs that worked in reality but didn't in the dream. The totem was the easiest though.

With her totem and unease, she had quickly discovered what was going on. Which sent her subconscious projections into an understandable frenzy. The interrogation of her in a small bathroom had ended almost before it started.

All she knew … All she subconsciously knew was that they tried her mother first, and that they were looking for information on Saito's company.

Presumably to strengthen the case against him in court.

Her projections tore them up, but like she'd told him before: she had no knowledge of that side of the business. Only that it seemed like an unprofitable move, and she couldn't see Saito doing something so foolish.

Neither of those things would be acceptable to Finnik, Brown, and Obara. It was obvious that they wanted blood. Evidence gathered by extraction was not accepted by any court system. Of all places where a suspect or witness _might_ have an expectation of privacy, the mind was one no one questioned.

Which also meant that the law firm doubted their ability to win the case. That the anonymous accusers didn't have the information needed to succeed.

And that would give him time. Because they would come again. For her. Or for Saito.

He considered his options in the shower and as he dressed, but still hadn't come to a solid conclusion by the time he left his room and made his way to the kitchen.

She was sitting by one of the large windows. Papers strewn on the table in front of her, but her eyes caught on the soft snowfall outside. Caught up in some thought. Or maybe caught in the vision of a city blanketed in snow.

He opened his mouth and prepared to call for her. He was already lifting his tongue to form the 'a', but she turned around and saw him before he could speak.

"There's breakfast in the oven." Her eyes didn't connect with his and she turned back to the window.

He followed her direction, but his thoughts moved freely. If a person's character was reflected in their clothing – a thing he fully believed – then her choice startled him. He was used to seeing her in layers. Used to her dressing in casual clothes. Used to seeing her without much in the way of cosmetics. Used to seeing her hair down.

That's who she had been when he first saw her the day before. The robe at night didn't count. And anyway the robe had been enough like her. This dress, lovely as it was, wasn't her at all.

Dove gray, pressed, with three-quarter sleeves. Tailored. Straight cut with a square neck. No slit. Falling just below her knees. Hair tied at her nape. Full make-up with lipstick some shade between pink and red.

She didn't look like herself. Not even like the woman his dream had put in a skirt suit and black pumps three years before. A skirt suit she had looked rather uncomfortable in.

She didn't look uncomfortable now.

As he ate the meal she'd left for him, she turned with a great sigh. "After you finish eating I need you to get rid of the sweater and put on a tie. You don't have to wear the vest and jacket, that's up to you, but the sweater will be a little too casual." Humor ghosted over her face. "Which is an odd thing to say to you, isn't it? I have a conference call with the construction manager and one of the owners on site at my building in London.

"Saito would prefer I not go anywhere alone. Even if it's just to the conference room on floor 18. But regardless of his wishes we'll have to be parted at least twice. You'll have to go downstairs and come back in the public entrance. Then leave and come back through the private. Ask for me, use … use … do you have a ready alias?"

"I have several."

"Then who would you like me to tell the receptionist is coming?"

"Aaron Lagos, will be fine."

"Meeting is in two hours. Floor 18 conference room 2. The receptionist is on floor 10, check in with her first." She looked him over. "It _is_ cold outside. Do the whole thing; tie, vest, and jacket. Will keep any questions at bay."

He turned to go change. Her voice followed him, "You must have met Saito's personal secretary yesterday. The general receptionist isn't quite the same image of professionalism. Hikaru is a bit of a flirt. Most men flirt back."

She was laughing at him.

* * *

><p>The private entrance still disturbed him, but it made sneaking in and out without notice a simple thing. He slipped outside into the cold and went to buy coffee at a nearby shop. And to rearrange his briefcase on the off chance that someone else got a look inside.<p>

Thirty minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin, he was at the reception desk giving his name to the tiny, and very pretty, Hikaru. She did flirt, and he made sure to be charming enough in return, but he had too much on his mind to do more.

She called up and sent him on his way with a thin, transparent folder filled with the details of the build site, and important points that would be touched in the meeting. He looked over them in the elevator. Nothing too disarming. He thought he could play his part well enough. Even without real prep.

Cobb planned by the seat of his pants 90% of the time. He'd gotten used to working on the fly. Didn't like it, but he could do it.

Exiting the elevator he found conference room 2 easily enough. The door was open and there were already several men seated at the table. She was at the head. Sitting with several stacks of paper in front of her for easy reference.

She turned when he entered. "Aaron."

"I'm sorry," he said, "am I late?"

"No of course not. Everyone else was simply earlier. The call won't begin for another half hour. Make yourself comfortable. There's coffee and pastries right outside the door."

He thanked her and held up his coffee to indicate he wouldn't need refreshment. She smiled. "Right. Gentlemen this is Mr. Lagos. He was one of my assistants when we designed and built at this location. I thought he might be of some use consulting on the London project as well."

Introductions were made, and he logged each name in his memory. One of the men asked him what sort of assistance he provided, and he answered easily enough. "Security. An architect strives for beauty, usability, flow; hoping that the visitor will see what the architect wants them to see. I look at that vision and try to find holes. To find places that need securing. Something vital in buildings created for business and for residence."

A sideways glance showed her eyes creasing at the corners. He amused her.

The room filled and she paged down to Hikaru to connect the call. The screen came to life in front of them, showing an office similar – if not as elegant – as the one they were in.

She started speaking to the man in the center. She made no introductions. Business was more important than simple formalities. A general assessment was made on the project's progress, and then she went on to question about specific areas. The owner and construction manager pointed out issues and difficulties they had with the current plan that needed revisiting. She made notes, offered suggestions, questioned a few of the men who surrounded her. Ignored the others.

Three years. Three years since he last saw her. There was a difference in her. In someways it was subtle. In others not so much. The last time they'd been together their relationship had been that of a teacher and student. She caught on quickly, but extraction was a complicated business that she was very new to her. Watching her now, he felt that there was probably very little about the world that she found complicated.

And very few people who could treat her like a student. If any.

"Thank you," she stood and nodded to the men on the screen as well as the men at the table. "Unless there are any emergencies that need my direct intervention, we'll meet again next week. I'll fax the changes to you later today or early next morning."

She spoke with each man as they left, leaving him for last. "Aaron, I'm sorry. It seems I called you to the meeting for nothing. Still, I would like your opinion on the overall design. Would you join me for lunch?"

He turned his eyes from her and considered. "Yeah, that sounds good. I have a few hours before I have anything pressing." They gathered their coats and left the building.

She scoffed as soon as they were out the doors. "God. Idiots. You can't cut millions of dollars from a project a third of the way through. Not and expect to retain the whole of the design. Because that money can't come out of safety measures. Earthquake and fire protections and the like are regulated. The law doesn't allow you to cut money from those places. Insurance and concern over future litigation don't allow you to cut prices there. So where _else_ but the design.

"That's why I enjoyed working in Dubai. Willing to take risks. Think out of the box. _And_ willing to pay for it." Her face was set in a scowl. "Idiots."

He couldn't help but smile at her. She wouldn't see. She was walking ahead of him – fueled as she was by cumulative frustrations – and she was muttering to her feet. And his head was above hers anyway.

He followed, silently, as she put him in a cab and gave the driver an address. And let them out in front of a small French restaurant.

"It's not the best," she warned him. "This is Tokyo, not Paris, but I get cravings sometimes. Seeing you reminded me of Paris."

"Sounds good to me."

The menu was split in half. Bistro lunches and more formal dinners laid out in multiple courses. She ordered coffee and cassoulet. Not wanting to spend too much effort on ordering, he chose the same. As they waited for the food to arrive he watched some of the tension slide from her.

"So," she said once the coffee had arrived, "what did you think of the data from last night, Mr. Lagos?"

He shook his head and slouched. "Most of it confirmed what we knew. Or what we thought. Most of it's good news. At least it cuts my job in half. Makes the half I didn't want to do in the first place, superfluous."

"You weren't going to do that half regardless."

"No," he said looking directly at her face. "I wasn't."

A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "I'm grateful."

"I think that there are a few steps we need to take. As soon as we can."

"And those would be?" she was pulling apart a chunk of bread from the basket between them and leaving the remains crumbled on a plate. She wasn't eating.

"Security. You have a few weak lines. They need to be moved or coated with something that will protect them from harm." Lips compressed she asked a question with her eyes. He nodded. "The second is help. The problem was caused by someone you thought you could trust. We need to bring in people we _know_ we can trust."

"I was thinking the same."

"Then I'll call them as soon as we're done with lunch."

"So soon? We don't even have the beginnings of our plan yet."

"But we might have to move in a hurry. It gives them time to wrap up any other jobs they're currently on. And gives me time to find someone else if they happen to be unavailable."

"I would trust no one better."

"I'm sure they'll come. But I prefer to have contingencies in place."

"Right." Her lips twitched, but she didn't quite smile.

Their server brought their food. It smelled wonderful. Tasted wonderful. He thought she might be a little hard on the restaurant. But then he hadn't spent years in the heart of Paris eating authentic Parisian cuisine.

"I've run into him three times. Two times before that assistant job," she said while they ate. He bit down on a bean perhaps a little harder than needed. "I'm wondering … were either of those valid jobs, or was I being cased from the start?"

"You worked with him three times?"

"Yeah. Things went so well on that first job together that I suggested him on the next two."

'_So well_.' Right. "The name in the file. I don't recognize it. Or the description there. We'll have to ask the others. But I'd assume he's on the _other_ side of the business. And because of that, I wouldn't know him. Our job being what it is, we tend to keep away from people like that."

"Or the name could be fake."

"Correct. The name could be fake."

"Would Dominic know?" she asked. "He has worked on both sides. And the two of them would be fairly close in age."

"He … he might." Hesitant to pull Cobb back in. Especially hesitant to put a friend's children at any risk. "You don't have to answer this now, but I will need an answer. What was it about him? What did he do to get you to trust him to such a degree?"

A double sided question. He needed to know what got her to recommend him for more jobs, and why she felt safe enough with him to make him a part of her personal life.

"He was … good at his job. Competent. Unburdened." There as a good deal of weight on that last word. "_Stable_. After … after our job, that mattered to me. He was neat. Not as exciting as … as Dominic, but it made the outcome of our work more predictable. Easier to say to our boss that the job would be successful when we didn't have to worry so much about the unknown risks."

"Was that all?"

Her nostrils flared and her eyes held a challenge. "It didn't hurt that he wasn't … that he didn't treat me like a child. Or as a fool. Plenty of people in our business do, you know. Because of my appearance. No matter that I'm as old now as you were when you met me. Or because of my gender. I never would have guessed how few women are in the field." The eyes softened. "You lot never made any mention of that. Never treated me that way. For which you deserve a belated thank you. But not everyone is as gentlemanly as the five of you."

He scoffed at the idea that Eames was gentlemanly, and she laughed knowing exactly the path of his thoughts.

"Lunch was lovely," he said as he laid down cash for his share of the ticket. "I'll let you know about the others."

"Sounds good. Thanks for joining me."

He left the restaurant and walked a few blocks. Turned a corner. Walked a few more. Found an international payphone. Dialed a number.

Hopefully Eames would be available. Yusuf and Cobb shouldn't be needed. At least not yet, but he wanted them to know the possibility that someone might come for them. Either because they found something from her or to get at her like they did with her mother.

* * *

><p>She was waiting by the door when he keyed himself in. He almost breathed a sigh of relief. She looked like herself again. Jeans and a tshirt. A tank over the shirt. Thin cardigan over that. What looked like two pairs of socks. She was very fond of layering her clothes. She looked best that way.<p>

"Did you talk to them?"

"Yusuf, yeah. He's fine. He's back in Mombasa and hasn't had any problems recently. But he's put his guards up. He'll be okay. He said we could call if we needed him. I think if we even think we might need him, we should bring him in."

"Eames?"

"Don't know. I left a message. Vague, but a message. I'll call him again in eight. With the message he'll know to wait for my call. If he can."

The phone rang.

Dammit.

"Hello?" she answered laughing after a glance at the caller id. "Why _hello_ Mr. Jeffries. How are you?"

He ripped the phone from her hand. "You idiot. Why aren't you calling the drop phone? And I told you to wait for _me_ to call _you_."

The reply was droll, "Sure you did, but how did I bloody well know if everything would be alright then? I'm rather fond of her, you know. She's in Tokyo?"

"Yes," he ground out.

"Good. Well. I'll be there in about 13 hours. I'll call at my stopover in Korea, if needed."

"As long as you call when you get _here_ that will be good enough."

"Yes. Thank you, Arthur. Now, give..."

He handed her the phone before Eames could finish his sentence. _He _had no problems saying her name. Why couldn't he do it? What was wrong with him?

"Yes," she was saying. "Of course. It'll be good to see you again regardless. Of_ course_ not, Eames, shit. Only if you let me first." She laughed. There was nothing especially sexy about her laugh. Nothing that should draw him in, but he found himself stepping closer to her.

Looking down at her from almost a foot above. He was rubbing his thumb over his fingertips. Fighting an urge to reach out and touch her. The cheek creased by the curve of her lips. The eyelids that covered those bright, intelligent eyes.

Then she was hanging up the phone. Smiling at him. And it was even harder. "I'd think you two hated each other if it weren't so obvious that you don't."

Her words. At first distant. Almost unheard. But before her mouth stopped moving, her words had snapped him back into himself. He smiled. "That's the most illogical statement I've heard since the last time I spoke with _him,_" he pointed his chin at the phone, "in person."

"Yes, yes." She was rolling her eyes. He couldn't see, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. "Come on. Let's go to the garden. You can get comfortable. Loosen your tie a bit. Maybe unbutton your jacket. You know, super casual for you. And you can tell me whatever it is you've been not telling me since last night."

His shoulders drooped. Not that he was surprised she knew. It was very like her to know. But because he'd have to tell her that someone had gone after her mother. That wasn't something anyone would take well. And she was very protective. Very attached. To even random strangers. With this being her mother …

She waved at his door when they reached the garden. "Seriously Arthur. I get that you're uptight, and I get that you use the suit to force people to take you seriously, but this is my home. Don't make me feel like you're here for work, please. Even if you are. At the very least, take off the jacket and vest. And the tie."

The twist of her lips made him think that she was speaking to him on two levels. That her words were as layered as her clothing. That she chose the phrasing... Chose to tell him how he needed to undress with more care than the simple sentences themselves might imply.

The sound of her laughter followed him into the room. Swirled around him as he hung his suit jacket. Unbuttoned his vest. And draped his tie over the back of a chair.

But she wasn't laughing.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Woah. Sorry for the time delay there. I meant to get this up last week but kept getting caught on stupid hangups in the story. The next one should come faster I hope.<p>

Thanks for all the feedback and comments! Please review this chapter as well. I'll try not to take so long this time!


	5. Downwards and Upwards

A Closed Circle

Chapter 5

Downwards and Upwards

He hadn't thought of the place as her _home_ before. Her design. Sure. Her creation. The place she was currently living. All that. But he had thought of it as more like a hotel. She had been taken from another residence in London. It made him think this was only a place she stayed briefly.

Which was odd for him. He had a series of crash houses. Small, unassuming flats in various places around the globe. Which he'd shared previously with Cobb. Cutting the cost in half. He was now dividing the cost in thirds with two other men he worked with on a fairly regular basis. He had enough information on them that ratting him out to the authorities would be unwise. And the places were big enough that if they all landed in the same place on their travels, they could all at least have somewhere to sleep.

None of them were _home_. None of them were like this.

He remembered that short, complicated phone conversation with her mother. 'I live in Tokyo, now' was what he thought she said. With some regretted exasperation. Something she'd told her mother more than once. Which wouldn't have been true if she'd only lived there for the two or three days since the attack. She wouldn't have said it like that.

This was her home.

He rolled the idea around as he took off his dress shoes and exchanged his suit pants for more casual khakis. They were pressed, and retained the crease even after packing, but they weren't suit pants. A dress shirt rolled at the sleeves without cufflinks. Tucked in. It was as casual as he could manage. Even for her.

And being in only his socks made him slightly uncomfortable.

"That will do." She told him when he re-entered the garden.

He would have frowned at her condescension if he didn't suspect a good deal of humor behind the words.

"So tell me," her eyes left him to look out at the scenery, "what are you hiding. What did you read in my mind."

He was quiet for long enough that she turned away from the window to look at him again. He was considering his words. Thinking of a way to tell her without scaring or upsetting her. But then, how do you tell someone their mother was extracted without worrying them?

You don't.

So he laid it out for her. Explained how a week before they went to her, they had paid a visit to her mother. The details of that extraction were unavailable, and all her own subconscious knew was that the four men who invaded _her _mind were bragging about success in her mother's.

From righteous anger to quiet anger.

She was unmoving. Sitting. Staring at him but not seeing him. Her skin had gone pale except for the line of her cheekbones which were flush. A hard pink.

If her anger had physical force. The force he felt pressing on him. The snow wouldn't be falling so lightly. A storm would rock her tall, distinctive building.

"Find him for me, Arthur." Their eyes made contact. He nodded. She had power. For a small time it was hard for him to look away. But then he decided to find humor in her anger. When he smiled at her, she released him.

Not knowing what he was supposed to do with a woman who was teetering somewhere between rage and grief and fear, he returned to his room. Better that he did what she ordered than sit around and make things worse.

* * *

><p>Eames arrived late the next morning. The call to his throwaway had Arthur out of the building in minutes. The tension of her anger in the suite had him twitchy while he worked and made it hard to sleep.<p>

Eames met him at a crowed shabu shabu place. They sat beside one another at the single boiler bar and spoke quietly as they ate.

"How is she?" Eames was filling his pot with beef and pork and small spears of corn. Healthy as always.

In contrast he was cooking Chinese celery and morning glory with mushrooms and prawns. Eames was starting to develop a slight paunch. Something he refused to let happen to him.

"She's fine. Angry. But physically fine."

"Surely you're wrong."

"Her wrists are a little raw from the restraints, but other than that, yes Eames. She's fine."

Eames was spinning his cup leisurely. Absentmindedly. It was beginning to piss him off. "You always do have to be a cheeky bastard." He said in an exaggerated drawl, pissing Arthur off further. Eames waved his cup at a leggy server for a refill. She came back with a full glass and a tea pot full of extra broth to top off his pot.

Eames winked and leered. She giggled and walked away without even a glance his direction. _His_ pot could have used more broth too.

"What does Saito want?"

"From you? Nothing. Right now I don't want him to know you're involved."

"Then who will be cutting me a cheque? I don't work for free, dovy."

"Me."

Eames leaned out of his slouch to throw an arm over his barstool. In time to throw the server another look. But it also gave him a way to look directly at him.

"You."

"For now." He added more sesame hot sauce to his plate. "But travel expenses will have to come out of that."

"Travel." Eames was putting rice into a bowl filled with the broth, sauce, and meat. Making soup. Still no greens though. He might die young of something other than a bullet. If he ate like this all the time. Which seemed likely.

"Canada. I need you to secure her mother."

"Her mother a target?"

"She was ..." a man bumped into him and took a seat on the far side of Eames. He started pounding Asahi beer and boiling fungi and fishballs. Arthur lowered his voice. "She was already extracted. But we don't want it … or anything else to happen again."

"Still sick?"

"Yeah."

"Right pile of shit. Thank you, Arthur."

"I can't go. I'm on the job. She can't go. The risk … Point is, she trusts you, and you're capable."

"Never knew you cared." He stretched and pulled another few plates of meat from the conveyer. "Bloody … I can move her to America."

"I don't want to be able to find her."

"That, I assure you, I can manage." He flagged down the girl for another refill and Arthur saw her slip a note into his palm.

The man on the other side of Eames left.

Arthur's mouth twitched. "Yours?"

"Indeed." Eames spoke the word with such satisfaction.

"A problem?"

"Mmm, of course not."

"Moving her mother to America would be difficult. Thought that was off."

"No," he let out his usual breath of laughter. "Bloody complicated, but easy enough. But not as easy as keeping her where she is." This time he waved the girl down for his receipt. She gave a little pout at the idea of him leaving. Arthur considered putting his eyes into the boiling broth.

"You're an egotistical jackass."

"And you are a pompous bore."

"Contact me when you get it done."

As he stood to leave, Arthur heard him mumble, "Watch her back."

"That's the job."

"Mmmm."

As Eames cleared his ticket, he returned to his food. He needed sedatives. Possibly tranquilizers. Stimulants. He wasn't sure how exactly it could work, but the standard dreaming unconsciousness with functional mental activity, but with enhanced feeling in the body.

He wanted the people he took under to feel the pain in their bodies. For the mind to spread it to the peripheral nervous system and make a dream of being shot in the knee more than just a memory. He wasn't sure how possible splitting the central nervous system was. But Yusuf could do it if anyone could.

Even if he managed it they couldn't be shipped. So that meant an exchange in person. He was considering transferring the whole operation back to London. As far as the … the man who took her knew, she wasn't aware of what exactly happened.

And much as he hated the idea. And he did very, very much hate it. Holding her out as bait for a second capture might be the best way to get the right people under their control.

But he really hated the idea.

He knew she'd say yes.

Between the four of them. With all four of them. Probably the best in each of their respective fields. The four of them could get it done.

* * *

><p>When he returned to the building, he went in the front door and requested a meeting with Saito. They hadn't established protocol for reports in their last meeting, and having once come in the front door, it was better that he not be caught in the public portions of the building without entering through a public door.<p>

Unprepared for the visit, the personal secretary was unable to direct him into the office, but he only had to wait for an hour. It was a boring hour. He had brought nothing to amuse himself, but it was only an hour.

"It is good to see you again," Saito said as he let his previous visitor out of the office and directed him in. Arthur made sure to turn his head slightly away from the older, much shorter, gentleman.

"Yes it is."

"Why did you come?"

Without being offered, Arthur took a seat in a comfortable corner chair. "Travel expenses. London is the eventual but I'll need to take maybe two stops."

"And her."

There were things he forgot. Years would pass, and even he forgot. Even things that shouldn't be forgotten. The set of Saito's face was familiar. He'd seen it before on a helicopter. Saito was there. And another face he knew. Another architect.

With bruises and open sores.

And the offer of a gun against a traitor.

Saito was a remarkably good businessman. When you spoke to him you felt like you could trust him. That he was honest and compassionate and caring. His manner allowed you to overlook the ruthlessness.

But he was ruthless. Efficient. Selfish. Greedy.

It wasn't that he was necessarily a bad person. That wasn't his impression of the man. But Saito was successful in business. And that meant he would be willing to kill her if she became more of a liability than an asset.

Though being a good person. Deep down. Somewhere. He'd probably feel a little bad about it.

Maybe. And that's what cleared his head of questions and doubts. She wasn't safe here, so they would go to London. Where she also wouldn't be safe, but she _could_ be useful.

"Yes. Her as well. You want her watched, and I need her for the job. I can tell you that she gave away nothing. I looked," Saito went tense and his eyes grew hard, "with her permission and her censorship of everything that occurred before that day."

It was winter outside, but the air inside had been perfectly comfortable. Now he was feeling cold. The room, the office, was quiet. A good office. A good place to work, but it also allowed him no distraction from the irritation in Saito's gaze.

"She was returned because they found nothing and hoped to change that by taking her again."

"You were not given permission to extract her."

"She gave me permission, and it is her mind."

Saito allowed his silence to give proper response to that statement. He didn't press further. He didn't want to be taken off the job. For someone else to be brought in who wouldn't consider her interests.

Her interests, at this point, trumped his own. Trumped Saito's. And there weren't many who would agree with that assessment. Eames would certainly work for her. Especially with money as incentive, but Arthur was less certain that he'd do so if Saito decided to turn that gaze in his direction. Eames had a long vision, and an eye trained on staying un-murdered for as long as possible.

Vision that didn't do anything about his diet, but still...

Fond as he claimed to be of her, Arthur doubted that fondness would overwhelm Eames' concern for Eames.

Yusuf would be needed for a better set of drugs, but he couldn't be trusted. Not fully. He had a lot in common with Saito in that way. A nice man, at heart, but … He was in business. A small business. Serving a select clientele, but with potential for growth and with high overhead in terms of payoffs to authorities who regulated shared-dreaming and saw Yusuf as a bootlegger and a drug dealer.

He was all she had. He'd gotten used to having a partner on the verge of collapse with Cobb. Gotten used to tricky jobs that would implode without a moment's notice. Adapted to seeing a job in colors other than money and overtime without pay.

Saito's glare softened into affable intimidation. "Anyone else?"

"I need drugs. That will incur a significant cost. And replacement documentation."

"She has worked with Mr. Eames. He seemed … skilled. She can contact and pay him."

"Out of her own money?"

"No. She has access to the accounts as needed."

Well. That was an impressive revelation. Impressive and useful.

"Will you go to … what was his name? Ah. Yes. Yusuf. Mr. Eames was quite outspoken of his work." The older man had a slight trace of humor in his eyes. He wondered what Eames had told Saito.

"The drugs can come from anywhere. I don't need an on-site chemist. And the compounds I need shouldn't be overly complicated." A lie, but Arthur would play as many cards close to the vest as he could. No need for Saito to have an eye on his whole hand.

"Go to Yusuf," Saito said as if he hadn't even been paying attention. Ripping the cards of his plans from him. Arthur scoffed. The man was good. "I know his operation. I like to have some knowledge of who I'm doing business with."

Arthur failed to comment on how it would actually be _him_ doing business with Yusuf. It wasn't anything important enough to get in a fight over. And besides, the comment fit Saito's character. It wasn't surprising, and Arthur didn't want to have to reevaluate anything he knew of the man.

Saito was a person he felt he knew very well.

"Have you seen Yusuf much since then? I'm surprised you're so familiar with his work."

"Only once. Through her, but I am good at judging a man. I know his business, and I can trust him to do good work."

Arthur nodded. The meeting was running a little long. He hadn't planned on talking for more than a minute or two. "We'll leave tomorrow."

"You will leave today."

Arthur clenched his teeth and imagined the lights dimming. Saito did such a fine job. Honorable and yet frightening as hell. A useful talent. Useful also because you knew where you stood with him.

You could trust him to honor his word, but you also knew he would never sear to set aside his life or position for you. He'd pay when he said he'd pay, and jobs done in confidence were truly confidential. He … cared, for lack of a better word, to some extent. Became involved. Didn't just throw people away at the drop of a hat.

But in the end _he_ was the boss, and it was the most important thing to him. For Saito, nothing took precedence over Saito.

He thought of her words: 'Well, it was obvious wasn't it? I would be a weak link in his business. He would have to take some sort of action.' That was the statement she made when he told her he'd been hired to kill her if he deemed necessary. Such a true, and completely casual, understanding of her place in Saito's world.

Of her own heightened mortality under the businessman's watch.

She was, after all, replaceable. Even if she was also immensely talented.

It made him uncomfortable. Saito was a very good short-term employer. But to work for him for years … it didn't seem safe. Or healthy.

As clearly evidenced by the current situation, and the terms he was hired under.

'Not that working extraction for anyone is ever completely safe,' he felt compelled to admit.

"I have," Arthur made his voice pleasant, "things to wrap up here. And Yusuf will need time to prepare."

"Then you have 8 hours. I'm sending her back to her construction site. She has a meeting tomorrow, 22 hours from now, in London. She will arrive in time for the meeting. Make sure she is ready. A private jet will be waiting for you at Hanada."

With that clear dismissal, he left the building before making his slow, cautious way back to her suite.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Very little Ariadne in that. It was pretty much plot, plot, plot. Next one will correct that. Sorry the update took so long!<p> 


	6. London's Burning

A Closed Circle

Chapter 6

London's Burning

There were times when everyone wished the world would burn. Today was his day.

She was perfectly willing to go along with his plan to toss her out into the waters of greater London to be bait for whatever Finnik, Brown, and Obara extractor that came along. Of course she was.

Because that was her. And she was interested in causing as much stress for him as possible.

He was uncomfortable with both of them being on the same private jet flight to London, but it was the only way he could keep an eye on her. A regular commercial flight would be better, but it also meant whoever was tailing her might get on and see them together. Anyone in the business would be able to get 4 from that 2+2.

He was well known, and anyone following her would know what she did.

They couldn't let that happen.

So it would be a helicopter flight from the Inazuma Building to a land site at Narita, and then a car or another helicopter to Hanada where they'd board the jet. The pilot wouldn't know their final destination until they got there. First stop would be in Seoul. Then they'd catch a flight to Europe. Then another to London.

Easy enough.

He sighed. He was tired already.

* * *

><p>London was cold. Worse than Tokyo. His foul mood wasn't helping matters. This was the most difficult part of the job so far. From his perspective.<p>

They left Heathrow separately. Both in cabs. She would change cabs twice. In an attempt to locate and/or throw off any tail they might have picked up. He was also changing twice, and then he would be dropped off two kilometers from his destination. He would walk the rest of the way to her flat.

That was the plan at least, but it was cold even in the confines of the car.

For all that he was ordered to stay with her, and preferred to keep an eye on her, it was better that they weren't seen together.

But it also meant a good hour, perhaps two, that he wasn't with her. She was a tough woman, he wouldn't deny it, but she was an architect. Not a fighter. Alone in the city where she was first attacked. The city where he wanted her to be attacked _again_.

Being bait was one thing. _Caught_ was a whole other.

But the time apart let him think more clearly.

It was very likely that successful completion of _his_ job would demand a second attempt at the one _she_ failed. A class action lawsuit like the one lodged against Saito and Inazuma Inc. usually started at the urging of a single individual.

If they could discover the name and private intentions of that single person … It would save her. It would save Saito. Which might just be saving her again. She was becoming a liability to him, and he wouldn't put up with it much longer.

Depressing and unhelpful thoughts in the end.

The sleet wasn't helping.

Damn this was a depressing place. How much longer was he going to have to walk?

* * *

><p>On the outside her building was drab. Six floors high and a regular brick exterior. An older building, but the architectural details were too generic for him to pinpoint exactly how old. The inside was made more interesting by the presence of a modernized vintage elevator. Even the old brass crank was still visible.<p>

Her living here suddenly made more sense.

Entering, he pressed the button for the 5th floor and listened to the creak and whirl of the pulleys.

The elevator stopped in front of a nice, clean, but boring hall, and he opened the gate. There were only two doors in the hall, and he went to 502. She ushered him in before he could even knock on the door.

She had a knife in her hands.

"Why did you take so long? Shit. I'm having a fit in this place. I didn't think it would … weigh on me like this. But all I can think about is waking up on the floor knowing something was wrong." She looked at the knife and put it on a small table against the wall as she led him into what looked like a sitting room. "I wouldn't want to come back here alone. I would have rented a new place."

There was a whistle coming from kitchen that he could clearly see over a halfwall.

"Ah. I was making tea. Do you want any?"

He nodded. He had been moments from reaching out a hand to comfort her. Anxiety and fear were natural when returning to a place where you suffered. But she didn't seem as agitated as her words implied. Her actions were as smooth and efficient as ever. He watched her prepare tea and food, remembering that she had only been gone from this place for a few days. Barely a week.

To amuse himself while she did that he wandered around the place. Looking for a room to put his luggage.

The flat was cozy. Comfortable. Not a maze. Fewer walls. Wider halls. No feeling of being lost in a relatively small space.

The suite in Tokyo was beautiful. The rooms were large. So were the windows. The _rooms_ felt huge, but going between them was an exercise in memory and patience. And a test against claustrophobia.

The center of the suite being the elevator and emergency stairs, hallways turned with sharp corners and smooth curves. Sometimes opening into forked paths and – at least twice – dead ends.

The design was teetering on the line of difficult and just plain cruel.

This London flat was open. Despite the smaller size and dreary weather, having two walls with four windows (smaller windows) added a lightness. The paler wood and softer fabrics helped the illusion.

In Tokyo there were darker woods with accents of red and gold to keep the place from being oppressive. And it managed. By being interesting. By being beautiful. By being frustrating. By being a fantasy brought to reality. But it was a close thing.

As different as the two places were, they were both still _her_.

"I don't know which one I like better," he told her as he took a seat in her casual sitting room or living room. "The other is so … grand. Impressive. Creative. But this one is more comfortable."

She brought a tray of tea and some sort of pastry and set it on the coffee table while taking the seat across from him. She picked up her cup and motioned him to do the same. "Part of it is that this one is temporary. And the other is … I had what felt like unlimited funds in Tokyo. I have a good bit of money saved, but I'll be in and out of this place for maybe three years.

"I need to be able to live here, but there's no reason to spend a lot of effort and money when I'll need to resell it soon." She gave what was almost a shy smile. It looked odd on her. She didn't often show embarrassment. She didn't often do anything to merit embarrassment. "Though I do have about three notebooks full of ideas and designs showing what I would do here if I had the freedom and time."

He chuckled and ate the food she had laid out. He could imagine her sitting here or looking at the dull exterior of the place and running for a notebook to fix the boredom. Keep it from infecting her imagination.

A beep sounded from somewhere deeper in the flat. She jumped up and hurried after the noise.

"Yes," he heard the muffled word. On her mobile phone.

The rest of the conversation was too quiet for him to hear. When she returned her face was set into a mask of something between anger and frustration.

He didn't ask. She – apparently – wasn't ready to tell.

* * *

><p>Two days passed. There were no problems.<p>

He was getting impatient.

She went back and forth between her flat, the build site, and the food market. She told him that she had a habit of ordering food in but ruled against it as an option. He was there. And rumors of a man in her flat would be sure to spread.

It was better that she was caught outside.

He preferred that she be taken in a crowed. Her attackers would be less likely to hurt her that way. At least until they got her somewhere more private.

But by then he would be there.

A call from Eames assured him that the Brit would be home in two days. Risky. And it gave Arthur some idea of how much the expat would do for her. He still had warrants out for his arrest in his home country.

Eames was certain it wouldn't be an issue.

Arthur believed him.

A second call revealed that Yusuf would arrive two days after Eames.

The chemist was waiting on a shipment of a few specialized chemicals. Particularly a stimulant that enhanced the pain receptors in the brain. And a compound for the customized sedative which would allow for pain but ensure unconsciousness.

The man was a genius.

Yusuf had also informed him that he would be bringing his youngest daughter. Competent and fearless, Yusuf told him. A good companion for her if they wanted someone to be physically closer than they could manage when watching her in secret.

Arthur was shocked. That a father would put his daughter in that sort of danger …

But Yusuf was positive that the girl could handle the work. Arthur decided to accept. Until he felt she was a danger to herself … or more importantly, the mission.

Then he'd send her home on the first flight out. 'Competent and fearless' or not.

While waiting on those three, Arthur followed her. Everywhere. Eames' arrival would be a blessing. He could use an extra set of eyes. His stress level was off the charts. Terrified that he couldn't see everything all the time. Certain she'd be taken when he couldn't see. When he couldn't help.

Despite his personal feelings for Eames, Arthur could never say the man wasn't good at his job.

Not as good as _him_, but certainly competent enough to help watch over her.

His palms were moist with nervousness. She was inside. Looking over something. The three times she visited the site since they arrived, she'd never left the building happy. And she never talked about what it was causing her anger.

He wanted to stay silent on the issue until Eames showed up. Someone else to absorb some of the latent rage. She was the type to hold on to, but bury, her frustrations.

At the same time, if it had something to do with the job, he trusted her to tell him about it.

But apparently he had too much faith in that.

* * *

><p>An hour before Eames' plane touched down, his phone received a message. From Eames. On the plane's wifi. Also risky.<p>

_Staying the night w/ frnd. If clean tomorrow, wll msg. _

Ah. A good thought, and something he hadn't considered. The warrants against Eames might not be a problem, but in case they caught up with him, it was better that he took a few hours to make sure his home country didn't ave any lingering issues with him. Or anyone else for that matter.

He had enough to worry about without adding people tailing Eames for unrelated reasons.

Like her.

Her face was set. Emotionless. A mask against her anger. It bothered him. He couldn't wait.

Arthur asked the question he'd been holding in for too long. Way too long. Even if that time could be measured in hours, it was still too long.

"Problems? Lack of focus can get you killed. Tell me and work through it."

"It's nothing. Not your concern." She was puttering around the flat. Making a comfortable space for Eames in her living room.

Which made Arthur smile. He was eagerly anticipating the argument about him having to stay on the couch when Arthur got a room to himself. But that wasn't the matter of the moment. He changed the smile for something more serious. Almost pressuring.

"Ah, but it is. Emotions don't just infect reality. They can poison dreams. You were with Cobb. Went further down with him than any of us.

"You are trusting me with your life. And I need to be able to trust you with mine. I _want_ to be able to trust you with mine."

She stopped her restless movement. Abruptly sank into the couch. Shoulders slumped. Eyes weary.

"My building is being threatened. All the workers and the owners. Their families. Me. You." She couldn't look him in the face. "If I told you, they'd hurt any and all of us. And now I have."

"Threats like that are often meaningless. What's more important is they mentioned me. Did they use my name?"

"No. They only said 'the man following you'. But the sound of his voice ..."

Arthur put his head down in thought for a brief moment. "Okay, they won't know -"

She laughed. She laughed. Not so hard to seem crazy. Loud enough to sound desperate. "Wouldn't you?" Her eyes pierced him. Forced him to speak truth not comfort. She was strong that way.

"Yes." but the truth was more than that. "They won't be as good as me. Few people are. And I know these men aren't better than me."

"That's the sort of ego that will get you killed."

"They can't know you've told me. I won't act differently tomorrow. Eames will be here in the morning. I'll sweep the building every few hours tonight."

"If you do that, it _will_ be different. They'll know I've told you something, but … you know best." That last part sounded like sarcasm.

"Then I won't go over the building, but I'll do a deeper check here. I'm not worried," he thought the lie was delivered very well. She had been followed and had been found within two days. Of course he was worried, but he could lie. When needed.

The set of her mouth told him it wasn't good enough. The set of her mouth told him she saw through his lie with no trouble.

She would.

She would.

* * *

><p>He woke to the sound of his name. Shrieked through layers of wood, plaster, and paint. The deafness of sleep.<p>

The cold winter air...

The hot, hot air...

He smelled the smoke before his eyes opened. Heard her frantic screaming before his mind processed what was happening.

"Arthur! Arthur! Talk to me! It's in the hall! I can't get … Shit!" The sound was punctuated by hacking coughs. "The window! Go out the window! Arthur, _say something_!"

He opened his mouth to reply but coughed instead.

"Arthur! Are you awake?"

"Yeah," it was weak. He tried again. "Yeah! What's going on?"

Walls or not he could almost see her disgusted expression as if she were in front of him. "Fire! Don't know how!" Again with the coughing. "Escape ladder outside your window. Go down. Meet you at the bottom."

"This is a _trap_!" he yelled back at her as the heat in his room grew.

"What are our other options? Burn to death! I'm going. See you outside!"

Stupid …! Their rooms were on opposite sides of the building. Hers the south, his the north. Damn! He had to beat her down and make it to the other side before she could be captured by whoever laid the trap in the first place.

Damn!

At first the window refused to open. Not likely that it saw a lot of use. But a judicious application of pressure forced the thing open, allowing sleet and freezing air entrance to where before there was only dry heat.

Impossible to ignore the flames darting under the door through the slight crack. The darkening of the wood in the orange light. He forced himself to calm. This was no worse than any number of situations he'd been in before. Granted a good majority of those were in the dreamscape, but that seemed irrelevant at the moment.

He groped around in the faintly illuminated darkness of the city night, and found the ladder with little problem. It was metal. Sturdy. Slick with the sleet.

His hands ached just touching it. It was cold. So cold.

Gritting his teeth against the distractions – both the ones inside and outside the building – Arthur made quick work of his exit. Focusing on both speed and caution.

More speed than caution.

It wasn't him they wanted.

It was her.

The solid pressure of concrete under his bare feet was disorienting at first. He looked up, finding easily the fire-lit glow of the room he had fled, and took off without a second thought for the fire. Screams from other parts of the building could be heard, and it occurred to him for the first time that no alarms had gone off in her flat.

Disabled. They had to be disabled.

He grunted his frustration. With the situation and with himself.

Mistake. Mistake.

His brain taunted him with his failures, and his responsibility.

Stupid.

Stupid.

His feet slipped as he rounded the first corner, but he corrected easily enough and continued to run. He had to get to her. Had to get to her before she was taken.

Had to get ...

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. Work and all. Usual excuses. Blah blah. Sorry again. Please review! Have the next one up as soon as I can.<p> 


	7. Sleep Perchance to Dream

A Closed Circle

Chapter 7

Sleep Perchance to Dream

The absolute black told him he was in a room. Not outside.

His arms were tied behind his back. He lay on his side. The surface under him was hard. Cold. Rough on his cheek.

Cement.

The place felt vast. Huge. But darkness often gave that impression. Still … his thoughts ran to warehouse or garage. Something large. Empty. With little to no outside traffic.

Isolated.

Secure.

Curse words and admonitions cluttered his mind. Uselessly.

He was still dressed in the clothes he was wearing when the flat caught fire.

He couldn't remember … how did he get here …?

Because he was unconscious during the abduction? Or because he was being extracted?

He could feel the bump of the small die in the custom pocket he had sewed into his sweat pants, but no matter how he struggled, his bound hands wouldn't reach. There was no assurance. No way to tell the truth of his situation.

Images of her face flashed in his mind, but this wasn't the time. He couldn't help her if he wasn't free. He filed his concern in one of the future files of his brain and focused instead on his own situation.

His hands were bound tight. No room to even shift his wrists. But his fingers were free. If slightly numb.

His legs were unbound. An odd choice. An odd choice that told him his captors were certain he wouldn't escape.

Stupid. He would expose them for the fools they were.

But then, that confidence and the open emptiness led him to believe he was dreaming. That he'd been trapped in some dark space while his attackers ran amok around his subconscious.

He rose to his feet. Thigh muscles burning. Why? He only remembered running a very short distance before blacking out. He was in good shape. He shouldn't feel -

"Hello, Arthur. It's been a while."

The words popped in the darkness like bubbles of light bursting and illuminating his surroundings. Defining the space around him.

Echos. Large place. Metal. Speaker was about 10 yards in front of him. Speaker was …

"Collin." He managed – barely – to keep the growl from his voice. Barely. "So you're the one she worked with. You're the one playing her. I would never have guessed. I was there at your court martial. You should still be in a small, dark hole somewhere."

"Well … this is a business of criminals, Arthur. You should know that as well as any of us. Traitor that you are."

"Framed," he would have waved the insult away if his hands were free. "Framed, and you know _that_ as well as anyone, don't you? As you were the one responsible. Besides being a traitor yourself."

"Don't think you can insult me with such trivialities."

"It wasn't an insult. It was the truth."

Collin laughed. An ex-military police officer with the USACIDC, he had used extraction to torture suspects (and occasionally witnesses) in order to boost his capture percentages. Get the attention of the higher ups. And, most likely, enhance his income. Using what he learned in the dreamscape, he was often able to manipulate the information to convict individuals who were not guilty into lengthy prison sentences.

Or execution.

In CID, Collin decided that "Do what has to be done" was holy writ. For which Arthur suffered losing his commission. Had his contract aborted. His service record expunged. And as a result he had fled before he was imprisoned.

With the USAS in the state that it was, his warrant wasn't being actively pursued, and he managed a trip state side to visit family about once a year. During which time he managed to enter Collin's tribunal hearing and watch with satisfaction as the bastard got his due. Not that he felt the scales were balanced. Only a fraction of Collin's coerced arrests were overturned. And the warrant for _his_ capture was only being 'overlooked' not revoked.

That would imply that the service had made a mistake. And mistakes in a state-funded operation often led to a lessening of respect and consideration of the program in question. Which led to budget cuts. Which led to cuts in operation funds. And even more damaging … salaries.

Not that he didn't _understand_ the motivations at play. He was willing to put down a large sum of money on the books that Collin was acting under orders and merely took the fall for a person who was too important to convict. Explaining how he escaped custody, no doubt.

But Collin still deserved some of the blame. And it was Collin who stood before him.

Arthur would never forget the person responsible. That he'd screwed _her_ over too …

Well. It looked like he was being offered a chance to right old wrongs as well as new ones.

As long as she was safe, which he couldn't be certain of – but rather suspected she _was_ – he could relax into this series of events with what might perhaps be an inordinate amount of pleasure.

* * *

><p>Sitting at a cafe doing surveillance was hardly a Ranger's idea of a good time. But orders were orders.<p>

"I can't remember the last time I did something fun," Collin said from the booth behind him. Almost silent. Though Arthur couldn't see him, he knew the man's lips barely moved. "I never should have transferred out."

"Then is calling me up to partner with you some sort of revenge for intelligence? Because I wasn't dumb enough to leave?"

"No. I know you. You don't like this shit, but you're fucking competent aren't you? You might be a stuck up cunt at times, Arthur, but I can trust you to do the job."

Arthur finished his coffee. Looked at it. Shifted his leg. Felt something … a small bump separate from the weight of his weapon against his thigh. He blinked. His nostrils flared as if scenting … double cross.

Damn.

The traitor.

"The word 'trust' has no meaning coming from you."

"Stuck up cunt," Collin muttered again. By focusing on the brief annoyance and the sound of his own voice, Collin missed the soft sound of Arthur's gun slipping from the holster.

He raised the weapon. The people in the cafe turned as one to glare at the CID officer. The metal of the pistol was warm against his temple. He pulled the trigger.

* * *

><p>He woke with no sound or movement. An ingrained choice made for safety in combat zones. Eyes closed, he felt the solid pain of a needle in his wrist. He was still bound, but this time his wrists were tied separately to the arms of a chair.<p>

No. Not tied. Restrained. Nylon. Wide, maybe two or three inches. Chair was metal. He heard it rattle.

A shuffle of foot on concrete at his side.

Arthur clinched his jaw. This was not going to be easy. And he still wasn't sure if this was inside a dream, or in reality. The die was in his pocket, but he couldn't reach it.

Shuffle again. Something cold touched his hand. En. No. Not easy at all.

"Wrong choice Arthur. You should have played out the dream." And something metal and hard slammed into his right forearm.

He felt his tibia and fibula crack. He clinched his teeth against the pain. A grunt. He lost a grunt but no more.

He wanted to scream.

He opened his eyes, and the bar was already on the downswing towards his knee. Time to brace himself, but no time to prepare.

This time he choked. The pain too shocking to _let_ him scream.

And again.

Again.

Again.

Aga...

* * *

><p>"Ariadne," Cobb stood on one side of the table. He was facing Cobb. Sitting on a cold chair. In a cold room. Preparing for a job … some job … what job? She was sitting at his side. "This is a stable environment. A test only. We managed three levels. Why not four? It's a question we want answered. From you I want comprehensive and believable worlds, but that are still small. The easier it is for the mark to believe the world, the more stable it will be, despite outside forces."<p>

"The more unstable outside forces the less any design can correct for the outside distraction." Arthur was being rude, and he knew it. "Somethings _are_ too difficult to bother with, Cobb. Sure four levels might be possible in theory. Might even be doable in practice. Key word being _practice_. But in the field solid planning is more reliable than risking going deeper and landing in limbo. I don't care that you did come back twice."

Cobb didn't argue. He rarely argued for things he believed in, choosing instead to move ahead in spite of other people's feelings, opinions, or objections.

"What do you think, Ariadne?"

She shifted in her chair, and Arthur felt her eyes flick over to catch his expression. "I don't disagree with Arthur. I can't think of any job where the benefits would outweigh the practicalities. It won't hold through the stress. Through any errors that might, and most likely, will occur, so why risk it? As a theory though … a test … I'm interested. Here we can control the risks, counter them. Allow for only say 30 minutes in the first world so that we're not stuck in the 4th level for more years than I care to consider."

"Good," Cobb was wearing that almost proud half grin he got when he approved of something she did. Sometimes, Arthur thought, Cobb treated her more like a daughter than a student. "I'll go get the others," he announced and left Arthur alone with her.

"You really think the lower levels will be stable?" Arthur asked her, turning so he could fully engage her. The chair squeaked and for a brief moment he felt a stab of pain in his temples. Headache. He got those a lot recently.

Did he? He couldn't remember the last one.

"No, of course not. But it's worth the try, don't you think? Exploring something new. Something a little bit dangerous." Her smile was coy. She looked up at him with her chin tilted down. Forcing him to meet her eyes through the veil of her lashes.

The table creaked and shifted next to him.

His mouth was open to answer her, but he shut it and moved his gaze to the table. Was that odd?

"Don't you think, Arthur?" she repeated. Smile unchanged.

"I – no. Dangers are meant to be mitigated."

"Some dangers," her hand was on his thigh. Fingers tripping up the fabric of his pants. He wasn't sure where they were before. He was confused. Confused and aroused. She was still speaking. It was a struggle to pay any kind of attention to her voice when her hand was marching a steady path upward and inward. "... to be conquered. Some dangers are meant to be fun."

He went still and could not answer her. Now her hand was favoring pressure over movement. It was the rest of her that moved.

That invaded his personal space.

That slid into his lap.

Pushing into him with other body parts. Places soft. Places hard.

Her lips were parted. Lifted. He couldn't move.

"You were always partial to brunettes, weren't you Arthur. And she does have a … captivating mouth, does she not? I sure as shit thought so. Very soft. Very talented."

It was no longer her in his lap. It was Collin.

He was laughing, and it was her voice.

And there was a knife in him.

And he was bleeding.

And then he …

* * *

><p>"Ugnh," he moaned as his eyes opened to darkness once more.<p>

"I wondered why you took this job. Why you went to her on this. As I said: brunettes. And yet, to fall apart over a woman. Not like you, Arthur. Not like you at all."

He spat blood onto the floor. "Who said I was falling apart over her? Who said I was falling apart at all?"

Laughter again, and it filled the place. "You never saw me. Days of tailing her as you did, and you never saw me." He leaned down to wipe a bit of blood that splattered over his pale gray suit. "You're still trying to be a testament to the Ranger creed. All these years later. Except it's finally slipping. No longer truly elite. No longer quite as mentally alert.

"Away from the battlefield you are less than you could be."

Arthur spat again. There was more blood this time. He coughed. "At least I haven't lost my morals. And you were always shit at taking care of minutia." He pulled at the nylon restraint, and the chair practically fell apart under him.

Raising the broken metal arm with his good hand, Arthur struck. Flat side crushing Collin's windpipe. Sharp side slicing his jugular.

He dropped, seizing with his final moments of life. But Arthur didn't miss the vacancy in his eyes before he went.

Crap.

He pulled the die out, hissing as pain from his right arm nearly overwhelmed him. Falling to his knees, Arthur rolled a one on the concrete floor. One.

Six.

Two.

Five.

One.

Three.

Shit.

He went for Collin's gun, scared as hell. Collin was already awake. Arthur's real body in his control. If he didn't get back, Collin would have him killed before he could exit the dream.

Gun to the temple.

Finger on the trigger.

Sque...

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Ah. So. Yes. Maybe you noticed dear Arthur changed clothes from his first warehouse moment in sweatpants, and his final in a suit. Nothing in the movie suggested this was possible (every time they came up they were in the same clothes they went under in, no matter the number of layers) but I'm going with the idea that Collin is pretty damn clever with this shit and Arthur is in a very confused state without a solid surrounding to anchor his subconscious. Collin could manipulate the clothes or possibly Arthur is slipping into them as some form of comfort or barrier against his surroundings. Yet, as it's a dream, he fails to notice the strangeness of it and instead focuses on his totem.<p>

Also I cheated on the A/A lovin'. :D


	8. Baseless Fabric of Visions

A Closed Circle

Chapter 8

The Baseless Fabric of Visions

He woke to the dull sounds of sleet on steel.

Warehouse.

But this time he could see. There was a light at his side, showing him his surroundings.

This chair was wooden, not metal. But his wrists were still tied down.

And he was gagged. But loosely. Working cheek and tongue muscles he spit out the rough-tasting cloth.

His mouth was dry. His body was sore.

No shirt. Pants … he felt something there, but he also felt cold air on the bare skin of his left thigh and his right knee. Torn up, most likely.

The specific pains eluded him as he tried to overcome the fog of sedatives, but he could tell he'd been injured.

Collin was once more in front of him. Tube and needle dangling from his fingers. There had been … shit … two levels? … the first level and two separate secondary levels? Complex. Still … no way this was another. A third or fourth dream. (Depending on how you looked at that top level … it did change slightly.) He couldn't believe Collin took him that deep – a second level was more than most people felt comfortable attempting, and he played it out twice – and kept it that steady. Without sedation. It had to be without sedation. Because he wasn't in limbo. He was back in the real world.

He had to be back in reality.

But he felt more off kilter than he usually did after leaving a shared-dreaming environment. What he just came out of was less like the traditional nesting doll, each level being another world inside the self, and more like … a tangled thread. He wasn't sure if the worlds went up and down or sideways. He'd heard no sounds and seen no one who wasn't either Collin or one of his own projections.

How did he wander around levels with only one dreamer? He didn't hear music as a trigger or anything visual, and Collin hadn't been wearing a watch …

What drugs had he been given? Not the usual. It couldn't be the usual. Crap. He'd need a blood test when he caught up with the others.

Discreetly as possible, Arthur scanned the area around him. Looking – and listening – for any evidence that she was somewhere with him. Somewhere in that metal building being hurt. Being extracted.

Being killed.

Dammit!

He tested the bindings around his chest and wrists and ankles discreetly. A pointless effort. Collin knew he would check. And Collin was good enough to make sure there was no give. No opportunity for escape.

No mistakes. Not anymore. Collin had tasted failure before, and he seemed determined not to experience that particular flavor of foot in mouth and fist in face ever again. But then he _had_ fucked up with her … botched the extraction. More her defenses than his incompetence, sure, but he wouldn't see it that way.

Arthur could see it in the set of his old acquaintance's jaw. This had become something far more dangerous than it was a week ago.

This had become personal for Collin.

Well then. Fine. All the more fun. Arthur gave a narrow smile. Because it was never _not_ personal for _him_.

Deceived her.

Betrayed her.

Attacked her.

It was personal for him since the beginning.

"So," Collin returned Arthur's smile, "here we are. I found nothing in my search. Not that I expected to. In the end, despite your insistence over your intelligence, you're always just a hired gun. Muscle. You don't plan. You don't design. You do the job.

"You don't know what I want to know. Hell, you don't even know where that bitch Ariadne is. And _she_ does have what I want."

Arthur didn't miss the strong sibilants on 'does' and 'want'. 'Want' shouldn't even have a sibilant, but somehow Collin managed to make his 't' into a drawn out hiss. A sort of vocal leer. An insult. And a threat.

He was the sort of person who took threats seriously. Especially when threats came from people who had already acted against him. But he knew what to look for now. He would escape. And Collin wouldn't take him a second time.

But it was satisfying to learn the extraction against him had failed. Arthur was an old hand at extraction. One of the projects earlier users, and longest too. Even when compared to those in the legal side of the business.

Mal was hardly the first or last dreamer to commit suicide. You get used to doing it in the dream as an escape, and it is easy to do when you're awake … as an escape.

The longer you delve into the subconscious, the harder it is to recognize reality. The totems helped, but Arthur was never entirely certain of their infallibility. _She_, for example, might be able to trap him in a dream by creating a space that made his totem react as she willed it. He wouldn't put it past her. She was a natural, and she embraced the sleeping world more completely than any other person he'd ever encountered.

Even more than Mal.

Which was worrying. As it was the most captivated – and often the most brilliant – who ended up dead.

Collin was still blathering on about his incompetence as a person in general and as an extractor and soldier in particular. Arthur didn't remember him being so much of a talker, but it seemed he could run his mouth at length if given the right subject or audience.

The bastard's ego didn't seem the least bit cowed by his stay behind bars.

Arthur wondered briefly if Collin was still being backed by some shady federal money. Not working completely on the other side of the law, but in that dusky gray area. The way he talked … the way he acted … bold. Brazen. Like Eames in a way.

Like an act.

So if Collin's puppet strings were still being twitched by some form of the military or government … why was he doing this?

Arthur snapped back into focus. Hearing her name. Spoken from the bastard's throat. A throat he decided that would look better slit and bleeding.

He was _laughing_.

Arthur's fingers ached with the tension in his muscles. With the desire to wrap them around that stupidly thick neck and squeeze the laughter from him. Breath from him. Life from him.

"We always did like the same kinda women, didn't we Arthur? 'Sept I was always the one who got 'em in the end. You were always too much of a fuckin' gentleman. Never realized when a woman wanted you to _do_ her instead of gazing at her with some sort of emotional bullshit."

What an ass.

He found it increasingly hard to believe she'd spent a minute with him … that she slept with him seemed completely outside of the realm of possibility.

But she admitted it. Inside her mind and out. And Collin wasn't lying. There was more than one time that Arthur'd had an interesting girl snatched out from under him, practically, by the chatty asshole.

Eventually he'd had enough of listening to his failures as a man, and – more to the point – _her_ successes as the woman in Collin's bed.

Arthur would make sure that this conversation... the ten minutes he had to sit through that crap …. would be repaid by Collin's death. No other way to exorcize the demon that was Collin describing what it was like to sleep with her in such disturbingly accurate detail – where "accurate" meant aimed at pushing each and every one of Arthur's buttons.

She'd shown no signs of being the type of woman who enjoyed being abused during sex. But Collin was going to great lengths, and using a significant number of adjectives to convince him otherwise.

So it was time to shut him down.

No weapons.

Restrained.

He had nothing but strength – limited by a fire and by a beating – and momentum – held back by starting restrained and by starting tired – and intelligence – hampered by extreme exhaustion and by extreme hunger. But he would use those to his fullest advantage. And he would win.

Because bastards like Collin didn't deserve the air they breathed.

And because he couldn't stand the thought of him even looking at her again.

One chance. He'd only have one chance.

Stupid bastard. Tying his ankles, but letting his feet get perfectly adequate purchase on the ground. It would be awkward, sure, but it might also be a little fun.

Collin took a step forward, gesturing with his hands to punctuate some part of the vile story he was using to try and throw him off his guard.

Arthur smiled. Like he was that stupid.

Collin hesitated as he made a second step. Catching the smile. Beginning to process the possibilities it held. But too late.

Arthur lurched forward, in what might have been superhuman effort, and balanced all his weight, and the weight of the chair, on his toes. Swung around. Caught Collin in the shin and upper thigh with the chair legs.

Swung back around as Collin's balance faltered.

Head to the solar plexus.

Again with the chair legs.

Collin fell.

Swung back. Stepped forward. Precariously. Forward again.

Landed with his knees in the bastard's neck.

The pop and snap of broken vertebrate was more than enough to make the pain of falling on his knees, fingers, and forehead worth it.

Dead.

Dead.

Well … that was rather anticlimactic. Probably he should have done something else. Extracted him, not killed him … but the bastard was practically asking to be killed. Arthur had been happy to oblige. He rolled the chair back into a sitting position, thighs burning like hell.

Right then. Time to escape.

* * *

><p>Two hours later Arthur was driving down the road, trying to get his bearings. Trying to find his way back into London from the random warehouse he'd been stashed in.<p>

He was driving Collin's car. Wearing Collin's clothes.

Barefoot though. Couldn't find his own shoes, and Collin's were too small.

He was – to use a too tame word – agitated. After he'd gotten loose of the chair (by breaking the chair), Arthur had searched the entire warehouse for her.

She wasn't there.

When he left and found himself in an area full of warehouses, he searched those too.

She wasn't there.

She wasn't anywhere.

So she had to be at her home. She had to be. That was the only option.

He'd call her mobile if he had one (Collin didn't have one he could snitch), but there was no guarantee her mobile even survived the fire. His, left in his room as he fled the fire, was probably melted. Even if he could _find_ a pay phone, it wasn't like he had change to make the call.

Collin hadn't been carrying cash, either.

London wasn't Arthur's place. Most of his business happened in some part of Asia or, on occasion, Eastern Europe or the Middle East. Places with big-money business interests, untidy wars, and fewer laws regulating shared dreaming equipment and drugs.

None of that put him in London. He'd been only once before he came with her. He thought he'd had the geography of the place down … but apparently he'd thought wrong. Especially when starting out from who the hell knows where.

Arthur managed to keep to traffic laws. He was carrying no ID, and he'd stolen the car from Collin. Whom he murdered. Being noticed by the cops would be bothersome. An inefficient use of his time.

When he arrived at her apartment – through a miracle or act of magic, as he still had no clue where he was – the place was surrounded by firetrucks and cop cars.

No sign of her, but he couldn't be entirely sure. He parked the car and walked to the nearest and most junior-looking officer.

Hoping the man would be too interested in the disaster to notice his bare feet. Which stung like hell from the cold.

"God," he breathed, not having to work at infusing his tone with shock and fear. "God, no ..." he grabbed the man's shoulder. "A woman. Was … was there a woman inside? My … my girlfriend … not – not answering my calls … thought something was wrong, but _this_ ..."

Arthur continued to babble at the cop until he finally found an opening to reply.

"No. Sir please calm down. There was no one inside. Do you know where she could be? We need to inf-"

"Shit … Calli. Calli's!" and he took off at a dead run for the car. Started it. Drove away.

All before the cop processed what was happening.

He allowed himself a ghost of a smile, despite his worry, and unlocked the man's phone.

Pick pocketing a cop was probably not the safest thing he'd ever done (though hardly the most dangerous either … not by a long shot), but his options were limited. And he was desperate.

With a brief moment's thought, Arthur retrieved Eames' number from somewhere in his mind and dialed.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Beep.

No voice mail message.

"Damn," he whispered. It _was_ Eames' number. He was sure of it. But then Eames wouldn't recognize the number he was calling from. Not answering was understandable.

He dialed again.

It rang again.

Beeped again.

"It's me." And he ended the call.

Less than a minute later, the cop's phone made bird chirping sounds. What the ….?

He answered.

"Eames we have a..."

"I have her, mate, don't worry."

Arthur let out a huge gust of a sigh, which sounded more like a sob than a sigh.

"Ah … shit … damn ..." it was all he could say. He was almost trembling as his muscles gave way their tension to relief.

"I'll give you our address -" Eames was saying in his ear. He almost missed it in his near giddy happiness.

"No good," Arthur interrupted, turning a corner that looked suspiciously like every corner in the damn area. "I have no idea where in the hell I am. Car has no gps. Stupid city," he muttered the last two words with more than a hint of anger. He turned up a small hill, then around _another_ corner.

"No … no wait. There's the Thames." It was a glittering stretch of black some miles in front of him. More importantly it was a fantastic way to orient himself.

"Going to have to better than that, Arthur. The Thames is a bloody big river." There was silence for a moment. "Mmm, can you see the bridge?"

"Which bridge?" he asked. He did it to piss Eames off. But there _was _more than one bridge, after all.

"The bridge, Arthur, the bridge. No need to be a prick, darling. The Towers. The largest bloody bridge anywhere near you."

"Yeah," he replied. "I can see that," Arthur made a loop around a block, and pointed the car in its direction.

"Alright. Okay. Meet you there."

And he hung up. He hung up without telling him how she was.

Probably Eames did it to piss him off as payback. He would have said something if she was injured or harmed in any way.

Probably.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: I'm honestly not entirely sure about the state of public phones in London. I know they're this side of extinct in the US (though they're very present in Thailand, where I live now). If this assessment isn't true: sorry! Also, deal with it. :D<p>

Second Shakespeare title in a row. This one is less well known than the "sleep perchance to dream" of Hamlet's "to be or not to be" soliloquy (and my chapter 7 title). The "baseless fabric of this vision" is from The Tempest (a play I've liked and hated for a decade now, since I first read it in high school) and refers to the fading of an illusion Prospero created for entertainment. The most famous portion of this speech is: "We are such stuff as dreams are made on."

I had a lot of reasons for this title, and it's one I've been waiting to use! Dreams as entertainment, but entertainment not always being joyful for all. Dreams, worlds based on top of the self, but _of_ another's vision as well. I could babble on, but whatever. I just wanted to point this out, because I've been waiting to use it for SOOO long! (like a week or something... ;D)


	9. Synecdoche

A Closed Circle

Chapter 9

Synecdoche

He met Eames on the bank of the Thames. Arthur wasn't sure _how _he'd made the trip, but it wasn't in a car. Eames was on foot and let Arthur drive, giving the occasional order to send him in the correct direction.

He stopped three times to break down and toss the cop's phone. He might have tossed a drop phone whole, but the cop's phone was probably under contract and extremely traceable. Battery, sim card, and body ended up in different sewer drains across the city.

They eventually arrived at a small, decrepit, multi-story building. It might have been a group home or small-room apartments recently, but it had obviously started out as a large, single-family home. Not _old_, not when talking about buildings in England, but hardly new. Hardly well-kept.

Arthur parked the car, but left it idling.

"Get rid of it," he told Eames as he got out. "I don't know this place near enough to do a proper job of it. You do." Yeah. That stung a bit to say. Normally this was Arthur's specialty. His responsibility.

It bit at his pride to ask Eames this favor.

"You have prints on file here?"

Arthur opened his mouth to say 'no' before thinking better of it. "It's possible."

"Then go inside and get gloves. Top drawer on the left next to the sink. Windex in the cabinet under the sink. Napkins. Those are on the counter."

With a sharp nod Arthur walked to the door. Surprised that Eames would do something as foolish as keeping it unlocked while he came to meet him. He discovered why as soon as he stepped up to the landing. It was occupied. The door flew open, and she jumped out to meet him.

He had to resist the ingrained impulse to counter her jump with a fist and knee. It helped that he was still a little sore and stiff from his time in the chair. It also helped that he reacted to the sight of her in soot stained pajamas and tied back hair in a much different way than he reacted to her quick forward movement.

That part of him wanted to do something not even resembling a fist to the throat and a knee to the stomach.

"Shit," she breathed a broken whisper. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"Yeah. I'm fine." His hands were at his sides, lifted slightly as if they wanted to reach around and hold her, but too cautious to actually go through with it.

"I saw the open window when I came around, but you weren't there. Eames said I couldn't stay to deal with the cops. You weren't answering your phone."

"I didn't have my phone." He managed to put his palms on her hips. Curl his fingers. She turned her head, and he felt her nose against his throat. Her lips, light and almost nonexistent, brushing his skin before she stepped away and took a breath to steady herself.

"What happened?"

He licked his lips and prepared to answer, but he could almost feel Eames staring. "Let me help Eames with the car, then I'll tell you."

Her jaw clinched as if she'd argue, but then her eyes and chin cut downward. She stepped back again. Away from the door. Giving him room to pass.

He would have regretted his words, but for the small smile he saw peeking out from beneath the curtain of her hair.

Nodding at her, acknowledging her good humor, he entered the house and found his way to the kitchen. Retrieved the supplies they needed. And headed back out to the car.

With the two of them working it took less than half an hour to take care of what he touched. They both agreed that cleaning the backseat was unnecessary. After checking for hairs, they gave it a pass. Should be little if anything that could be traced back to him through prints or DNA tags.

Eames stood, stretching his back. "Well, Arthur, how's the boot?"

"I didn't touch it."

She'd come down the stairs and was standing between them. In front of the car.

"Where did you get it," she asked.

"Took it from Collin. Stole it." He knew she wouldn't recognize the name, but he needed to tell her what happened as soon as possible. She might blame him for … something … otherwise.

Eames, after a second's pause, reached into the driver's side of the car (still gloved) and pulled a small lever. The trunk popped open. Eames looked inside. Froze. His nostrils flared and his lips compressed. They curved into a bitter grin.

"This 'Collin'. How did you know the man?"

Arthur's gut clinched and he walked to stand next to Eames. Followed his gaze. And he froze too.

"Well," his tone was calm. Steady. Like this wasn't a problem of any kind. "That was certainly not part of the plan."

"How did you know him, Arthur."

"Old army buddy."

"Well then; Ariadne, come take a look."

Arthur was surprised Eames asked her over. He must have figured out she knew him, or knew Collin. He must have decided that she needed to see.

Her eyes on them, her steps were cautious. Almost frightened. She joined the two of them and looked where they looked. Saw what they saw.

He heard her draw in a sharp breath. Caught her hands fluttering in some impossible thought about doing something.

Probably the first time she saw a dead body outside of her dreams.

Her hands came to rest on her stomach. And she was alternating between taking deep breaths and trying not to breathe at all. The body looked fresh, possibly still in rigor, but with him lying there, he couldn't be sure about rigor. And it wasn't like any of them were going to reach out and touch the thing. They had little way to tell the exact age of the corpse.

Arthur's specialty, and Eames' too, was in _making_ dead bodies. Not figuring out how they got that way.

But still. There was the smell. Arthur would say at least a day. Perhaps longer.

"Do you know him, Ariadne?" Eames was also watching her, and it seemed he saw something other than fear and revulsion in her. Something Arthur didn't notice himself.

Recognition.

"His name," she said, almost choking over the worlds, "his name is … was … no. Is. Miguel. He was our … for the job, that last job I did. He was our chemist."

"Never heard of him," Eames muttered as if he knew everyone in the business. Which he probably did.

But then, Arthur agreed, between the two of them they had to know everyone on both sides of the industry. "I haven't either. He could be straight. Or extremely new."

"Daniel brought him in. Recommended him to me. He was good enough. Not the best I've ever worked with, but I assumed … I assumed Daniel worked with him because he was loyal. That he could be trusted." Her hands pressed harder into her stomach. "Did the same people who took me kill him?"

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah. Yes. Collin did it. Daniel to you, but his real name was Collin. Ex-Ranger, ex-CID officer, ex-con, and possibly some sort of spy. He had friends in high places before he was put away. This was," he gestured to the body, realizing it would make him seem cold and callous, but there was no way to deny this wasn't his first body, "probably Collin cleaning house. Collin trusted no one enough to let them live as witnesses to his failure.

"With some backers, all it takes is one bad job to have you dangling from a short rope. I would guess Collin was working his exit strategy into an attempt at salvaging the job. If left incomplete or unsuccessful, he could take off, leaving no one behind to tell tales. If it succeeded … he wouldn't have to split the profits."

"Regardless," Eames brushed off all the conjecture, "this could help us. This man – Miguel – is attached to none of us. One job with someone else as the contact won't connect you," he nodded to her, "and we've certainly had nothing to do with him." Squinting at the corpse, Eames made a decision. "Right, we have a dead man in a wiped car. Obviously murder. But not one we can be connected to. It will distract the authorities and give us one more layer of protection.

"I'll dump it somewhere," Eames shut the trunk and readjusted his gloves. Picking up the windex and napkins, he worked his way to the driver's side of the car. "You two get some rest. Sleep, Ariadne."

She nodded absently. Arthur pressed down on her shoulder.

"She's in shock, Arthur."

"A man she knew – well or not – is dead. What do you expect?" His tone was too sharp to be a simple question.

"Temper, temper, Arthur. I didn't say it wasn't justified. Put her to bed. This will take some sleeping off. And," wry humor lit his eyes, "you aren't looking very fresh yourself, darling. Might consider falling in that bed too."

Arthur clinched his jaw. Bastard.

Not that he ever expected Eames to be blind. To not see Arthur's blatant desire. Or to ignore it completely. Eames was expert at studying people. He would see. But wouldn't give him away. At least not directly. Not when he could torment him instead.

Arthur couldn't do anything but glare as the engine started and the car drove away. Leaving her standing, shoulder slightly trembling, under his hand.

"We should go inside."

He led her up to the house, and she shook herself out of her shock. "You said you'd tell me what happened. _Daniel_ did this? He … well, I can't say anything, can I? I didn't know him. Collin? You said his name _was_ Collin?"

"Yeah. He's the one who took me tonight. I … dealt with him."

"And he was a friend of yours? Why didn't you … when you looked in my subconscious; why didn't you know who he was?"

"Ah, he wasn't a _friend_. We worked together. A long time ago. And all I had to go on then was the name 'Daniel' and your impressions of him. In hindsight, I see the similarities, but last I heard Collin was incarcerated back in the States. The possibility of it being him … well the thought never even occurred to me."

Assuming the rooms were upstairs, Arthur slipped his hand from her shoulder to the small of her back and nudged her in that direction. She was in soft, flannel pants and a loose-fitting shirt. She – her clothes, her hair, her skin – smelled faintly of smoke. Of fire.

He managed to keep his hand from coiling into a fist. Anger wouldn't help here. Wouldn't help him, and it wouldn't help her. Collin was dead. That debt was paid. But if anyone ever offered Arthur a chance to kill the bastard a second time, he wouldn't turn the offer down.

"Which room were you in?" he asked to deflect himself from the morbid path his thoughts were taking. "And Eames'? I'm going to need a change of clothes."

She chuckled a little at that. "You and Eames are _not_ the same size."

"Well," he smiled, turning her into the first door she pointed out, "elastic will fit almost anyone, and so will a t-shirt."

"Point to you. Can I help you riffle through his underwear drawer?"

"Why not." It wasn't like Eames would fault her for it. "Though I doubt he has his underwear in a drawer. We tend to live out of suitcases."

"I would still be interested in violating his privacy." She was smiling that small smile. He was surprised how quickly she was bounding back. The first time he saw a man dead from non-natural causes …

He'd killed that man himself. Probably changes the reaction some.

She pulled away from him until she was kneeling in front of Eames' largest bag. Opening it revealed hard-case boxes of various sizes. Guns. Ammo. Not a stitch of clothing. Her breath caught. She swallowed. He watched as her chest and shoulders gave a small, almost unnoticeable, spasm.

Biting down hard on her lower lip, she turned to one of the other bags. Fingers pausing before closing over the tongue of the zipper.

This time it was full of clothes. Not suits, those were in the garment bag hanging on the hook beside the door, but a few shirts and more than enough boxers to pull a pair out without worrying about how Eames would manage.

Not that Arthur relished borrowing them. The man had disgustingly tacky taste in clothing.

But that flamboyance in Eames brought a smile to her lips now. So maybe it was worth it.

And maybe it wasn't. She held up a blue pair decorated with pineapples and coconuts for his approval. He did _not _approve. She stretched her hand out, unconcerned. He heard a dismayed sound leave his throat as he reached out to take them from her, and she laughed. To compound his embarrassment, she handed him a black shirt emblazoned with a sleeping turtle.

"Where does he get these?" Arthur's mutter was rhetorical, but she answered him regardless.

"Why? You want to restock your wardrobe with something similar, Arthur? All of yours _did_ go up in the fire." She presented him with more of her soft laughter. Though her eyes were darkened by shadows. Her clothes were lost to that fire as well.

"Just wait," he told her with an answering smirk, ignoring the pain to bring the humor closer to the surface, "I'll pay you back for this some day. I have a long memory."

She dropped her chin without breaking eye contact, "I look forward to it."

She stood. Walked to the door. And he turned to watch her leave. Her hand touched the door frame, and she paused for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Almost, he didn't see it. Almost, he didn't recognize what it meant. What it could mean if he wanted.

She didn't look over her shoulder at him. Didn't speak. Only her fingers on wood trim and a pause infinitesimal enough to be overlooked. If that was what he preferred.

Okay. Fine. He was done. Maybe he should back off. Wait out the no doubt tumultuous emotions from the dead bodies of an old coworker and an old lover, but he didn't have it in him. After the inception job – after that kiss – he'd backed off. Unsure if her place in the world had room for selfish demands.

Here was his answer. If he had the courage to take it.

Two steps it took to meet her on the other side of the door jam.

Two steps to be close enough to stop her with hands tight around her forearms.

Two steps to lower his lips to the soft skin just below her ear.

He didn't ask permission. Didn't ask for acquiescence. Without words, she had given him both.

The hands restraining her slipped around to pull her closer. One arm under her breasts, the other under her throat. Fingers brushing her jaw. Tilting her head so he could kiss her again. Kiss her without the ruse. Kiss her without the job. Kiss her without the pressure of time.

She moved – twisted – to turn in his grasp. He didn't resist her. As long as her mouth never left his, he couldn't care less what she was up to. And it didn't.

She leaned in, standing on her toes. Her own arms wrapping around his hips. Her own hands slipping under the hem of his shirt – not that awful turtle thing … but almost as bad. It was _Collin's_ shirt. Best not to think of that.

Her hands slipped under his shirt and opened over the bare skin of his back. Brushing up and down, nails nipping at his muscles in the brief moments she gasped for breath.

He found he _did_ actually care what the rest of her was up to.

Her knee rose to press against his thigh. He pushed her until her back met the wall. So she could keep her balance. So he could lift her up and make it easier to taste her throat, the slight hint of her breasts above the collar of her shirt, and the bare curve of her shoulders.

Her hands found their way into his hair, and he brushed his lips over her left ear.

"Where were you sleeping?"

She turned her head to touch his mouth with her own. She did not kiss him, but spoke in a voice almost too quiet to hear, "You think I could sleep with you missing?" Her hands dropped to his shoulders. Wrapped around his neck. Pulled him until his face was tucked in the hollow of her throat. "No. Never. But Eames said I could have the room at the end of the hall." She brushed his hairline. Drew circles that dipped below his collar and sent heat through his veins. "If I needed it."

He was sure she was laughing. He could almost feel the twist of her slight smile brush the top of his head.

"I think you need it," was all he said.

She did not answer. But then she didn't need to.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: You're welcome.<p>

Also: Synecdoche means 'part of a whole' … basically.


	10. For a Few Friends More

A Closed Circle

Chapter 10

For a Few Friends More

He woke with his head tucked under her chin and his hand clasped over her hip. Her own arms were wrapped around him. Closing over his elbow. He felt better than he had in ages. The tension and stress that had been coiling and near to breaking the night before had loosened and relaxed.

If she smelled less like smoke it would have been a perfect morning. Unfortunately the spicy smell of burned wood clung to her hair and sank into the exposed skin around her face and neck and hands. It reminded him of what was actually going on and thrust him from the gentle haziness of waking up inside her tight embrace into the sharp focus of the job. And the threats that went with it.

"This isn't going to be awkward, is it?" were her first words to him as he woke.

He smiled and tasted her sleep-warmed skin. "Not if we don't want it to be." He let his mouth find its way up her throat and to her lips.

"I smell like something burning," she told him when he broke away, "and you smell like something worse. How about you take the first shower?"

"More efficient together," he wasn't smiling. Not really.

She wasn't smiling either, but humor and pleasure glowed in her eyes and in the softness of her cheeks. "Something tells me it wouldn't be."

"Never know until we try."

It was better not to give her the option. He pulled her off the bed with him and dragged her – and her superficial, chuckling struggles – into the close confines of an alarmingly … um … 'vintage', en suite bath.

Still, she was adamant about showering on her own. Without kicking him out, though. He enjoyed the view, but in the end it only drove him into wanting to be in that shower with her even more. Only made it worse.

She attempted to distract him by asking how things went down with Collin. Seeming genuinely interested in his broken/stilted answers. The smiles she flashed him from under the steady stream of water proved she didn't actually believe her distraction was working.

Or that she even wanted it to.

Which revelation distracted him completely. Changing the few thoughts he had of 'Daniel' – who he still wished he could kill again for touching her – to focus on her. In a moment he was freed of the oppressive, tropical boxers and standing in front of her. Taking her place under the water. Cupping his hands around her shoulders. Without clinching. Without forcing.

"Tell me to get out."

"Why would I do that?" she asked, pushing wet hair over he shoulder. Away from her face. Exposing her breasts.

"I can't think of a single reason," he told her. Then, since her eyes and body radiated eagerness without the slightest hint of reservation, he bent to drink the water rolling down her stomach.

Pushing. Clasping her hip. Reaching up to rub his palm and brush his fingers over the hills and valleys of her skin.

He had marveled at her quiet control the night before. (More like early morning, if he felt the need to be perfectly accurate. And he did.) That noiseless intensity. Better even than his, and he considered himself to be a very controlled person.

He'd heard her yell in anger before. Anger, frustration. Maybe fear. But in bed ('bed' being relative), she was given to gasps and delicate moans.

He came up, pressing his body fulling against hers. Trapping her between tile and him.

"You have a thing for walls, don't you?"

"I wouldn't say that," he answered, somehow managing words. "My arms still hurt. Hard to hold myself up in a bed."

"Then I'd think you'd do better on your back."

"But we'd get the bed wet," he told her, voice growling over one of those words more that the others. "And it's not _our_ bed."

"That didn't seem to be a problem last night."

He smiled at her, "This morning."

"You get my point."

Well that didn't require an answer. He bit her ear and lifted her. His knee for leverage. His torso for stability. His hands to position her hips.

* * *

><p>The good thing about showers, was how convenient it made cleaning up.<p>

His shower was quicker than hers. She had more hair, which translated to more work. He might have offered to stay and help, but then probably there would be repetition … and it would spiral into a never-ending loop.

While she was washing conditioner from her hair, he slipped out of the bathroom to find Eames.

Surely the man owned _some _form of clothing that wouldn't offend his sensibilities. Outside of being simply revolting, distinctive clothing tended to be a liability in their business.

Eames was waiting for him in the main room downstairs. Reading (or _pretending _to read) a newspaper.

Eames took his time turning his attention away from the paper and towards him. A good two minutes. At least. The cockeyed smirk that stretched across his face played somewhere between sarcasm and what very well might have been genuine enjoyment.

"Why, Arthur," the bastard said, feigning surprise, "I didn't expect you to come down so soon."

"I could have come sooner, but I figured – after last night – I might as well take my time."

The smirk changed into a truly satisfied grin. "This, I do believe, is the first time you've ever taken my advice."

"Even you can have a good idea," Arthur rocked back on his heels and heard the water finally cut off upstairs.

"A cunt to the bitter end, I see."

"Not at all," Arthur maintained a neutral expression. "Quite the opposite."

This time Eames let out his laughter just as she came down the stairs. Towel wrapped around her hair and wonder dancing across her features.

"Don't tell me … you two are actually getting along?"

"With this paradigm of fecklessness?"

"With this," Eames mimicked while standing and making his way to the kitchen, "paradigm of stoicism."

She laughed and followed him to get food.

* * *

><p>After eating, the three of them drove by her flat. It was in less than perfect shape. To understate, drastically, the situation. She compressed her lips when she saw. But in less time than he thought (or maybe feared), she sighed and turned to them.<p>

"I have to show up. It will be obvious that someone was staying there. My name's not on the deed, not my real name, but I'm sure the fire didn't completely erase my presence. And it shouldn't take the fire department long to determine how it started. That alone will raise suspicions."

"Bombs in the alarms," Arthur agreed.

Eames didn't look away from the blackened building. "You used your own passport to visit?"

"Yes. I was coming for work, so it seemed best."

"There's an idea you should get over. I'm surprised Saito has let you get away with it."

She shrugged. "It's no secret that I represent a portion of his business interests. That he invested in my first building, and continues to work with me on retainer." She followed Eames' eyes to her temporary home before quickly turning away. "Odder if I stayed in one place. And not good if I were caught here during work without any proof that I arrived."

"Good reasoning," he said, backing her up to Eames.

Who snorted, "Well of course you would agree, _Arthur_."

She blinked as if surprised. "Arthur's your real name?"

"Yeah. I started straight. So did Cobb. We were … are … known by our real names. It would be harder to get work if we used pseudonyms. Though," Arthur felt it necessary to add, "few people knew Cobb's first name, and I never use my legal surname."

"Not even in the beginning?"

"When I was with the military, of course," an old woman was walking down the way-too-cold-to-walk street and gawking at the destruction. Some people liked to do that sort of thing. "I was legal back then, but when I left that side of the business, I left certain things behind."

"Like your last name."

"And family. Friends. Only at first," he told her when her eyes began to cloud with gloom. "Almost no one is still looking for me. And I'm much better at navigating the safe routes home. I make a stop there once every year or two."

"Last time you went?"

"Two January's ago. Good to fly just after the holidays. Still lots of people going home and that sort of thing. TSA officials are exhausted, and, with the holidays over, not on high alert. Unless an actual threat has been made."

Someone – a civilian – exited the building. Not wanting anyone to recognize her, Eames drove away. She wasn't incorrect in her need to contact the authorities. While they drove to the airport, they considered various stories and explications.

Her hand prints would be on the window seal and emergency stairs. So would his. And they would be checked. With the fire caused by a bomb, police would be obligated to conduct a full investigation. So they needed to come up with an adequate reason for her running and not sticking around for help. Not calling for help in the first place.

First idea? Didn't know what else to do. Scared. Freaked out.

Second idea? Fear based on a simple truth: she had been contacted. A threat had been made against her life, the lives of others she was obligated to, and her business.

More than likely the authorities would assume there was some sort of organized crime connection, and the investigation would eventually go cold.

Idea two might be giving away more information than they were comfortable with, but at the same time it was something that made a lot of sense. It explained her reaction completely. But … it would mean the authorities would want her on hand to answer questions and follow her movements more closely.

No option they came up with was perfect, and only door number two fit well enough to be truly acceptable. So they went to pick up Yusuf before they arranged for a drive by of the London police. They'd drop her off and leave. Arthur needed to quietly disappear from notice. There would obviously be traces of him in the place – he had a gun in one of his bags – but there was only so much he could do, and getting taken in by the cops wasn't part of that so much.

The airport was crowded. At least the lot was. None of them went inside. Some of it was so they wouldn't be tagged as a unit. Most of it was to avoid further contact with the authorities. Again, especially for him. And Eames. Eames still had to be cautious.

So they waited for Yusuf and his daughter in the lot. Waiting for a call to Eames' drop phone. Inwardly, Arthur had come to a very clear conclusion that Eames should have done the pickup alone while he took her to the police station, but what was done was done. They had all wanted to see the remains of the flat. They all wanted to be on hand for Yusuf's arrival.

Waiting for everything to be ready. For them to be together and to get the job done. To clean up the hell-storm that surrounded them. Because with the fire and his getting snatched …

Things were getting serious.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Freaking short chapter. Last few weeks of the term were a crazy lot of work, grading took forever. Now that I'm done with two weeks off I thought I could catch up, but I spent the whole week starring at a blank Open Office Writer page. Ugh. I'm disgusted with myself.<p>

Sorry about this.


	11. Door Number Two

A Closed Circle

Chapter 11

Through Door Number Two

Yusuf and his daughter met up with them without mishap. The moment he laid eyes on the daughter, however, he was coming up with all kinds of "mishaps".

She couldn't be older than fourteen. Sure, Yusuf had told them it was his youngest daughter. And _sure_ with Yusuf only in his late thirties … well. Arthur should have seen it coming. Instead he'd let Yusuf go since the girl was family, and as a chemist the man was trustworthy enough. Good at his job.

And yet Arthur'd problems with the girl coming in the first place. Now he was more than certain she shouldn't be involved. Not with this. Not in the field. Not facing what they were likely to face.

Not when there had been attempts at murder, torture, and dead bodies. All in 24 hours.

A girl only recently out of childhood shouldn't be exposed to something like that.

"I'm staying," the girl said from the front passenger seat before he could even open his mouth to object. "I know my father's business, and violence does not frighten me. I will stay."

The confident glare she threw over her shoulder had him adjusting her age. Sixteen maybe.

"What's your name?" she asked the girl casually, attempting to diffuse the tension. Her thigh pressed against his as she leaned forward, effectively distracting him from his minor irritation.

"Kiran."

"Okay, Kiran, the point no one actually tried to make is that what we're doing is dangerous. Not to mention illegal, and you are a minor. Daughter or not, that makes all of us somewhat responsible for you. Therefore if you're caught, we can all get in trouble, not just from doing something against the law, but for getting you involved in that something."

"I still don't see the problem. I wouldn't blame any of you. My father taught me -"

"Saying so now is all well and good, love, but it's another matter when there's a copper bearing down on you with the full force of the law behind him."

"Exactly," Arthur was really not very fond of agreeing with Eames, but when he was right … "Most likely you'll cave. That's expected. That's understandable. It just would have been nice to know your actual age before you got here." He shot Yusuf a dirty look.

"Yes well," Yusuf grinned, "you'll just have to trust me when I say she can do that job. And she won't leave base anyway. She's there for the chemicals and to watch. Eventually she will be full partner in my shop and then take it over. She needs to study as much as she can now."

"This is _not_ an internship program!"

"Either Kiran comes or I don't. And we both know I'm the best you can get, Arthur."

Something about the girl put a smile on her face. It annoyed him, but she didn't seem to care. She spent the whole ride back crammed between him and Yusuf. Head down. But still a slight smile her her lips.

He also kept his head turned in and down avoiding – as best he could – being caught any surveillance camera. Especially at the airport.

Eames updated Yusuf on the most recent problems they were hit with. Then the lot of them fell silent. That silence that in no way was natural. Awkward; slightly. Nervous; certainly.

Thinking. Resting. (ha!) Trying to forget for a bare moment that this endeavor was going to be more complex than any of them initially believed. And the pay dammed well better reflect that. Though _he_ – of course – would do whatever necessary for her. Regardless of cost or risk. He had money. He didn't need Saito's.

But this was looking more and more like a murder job. No doubt Collin wouldn't be the last body they left behind them. And extractors weren't assassins.

Murder should never be done for pennies. Theft and implantation of ideas and memories was an expensive business. Murder even more so.

It was a given that the price on a human life would ring up higher.

Before he realized it they had arrived back at the house. They each entered the place in quiet contemplation.

Eames directed Yusuf and Kiran to rooms upstairs, and then they all met in the kitchen. She got drinks and lunch ready for all of them.

"...I have to go to the police station next," she said, head still down. She waved of a chorus of 'whats' with her sandwich. "It was arson. No question. I was there. No question. The place is in my name … No question. I have to go or I have to leave the country. At which case the arson will be on my head and no one elses. They won't even search for anyone else." She looked up finally, and for the first time in hours, there was fear in her eyes. "Arson and my _real_ name. I can't let that happen."

"Which means a right load of shit on our doorsteps," Eames was shredding bread, seemingly to no end. "You won't be able to step out the country until they finish the investigation. You're trapped Ariadne."

"We have to be here anyway," she insisted. "Obara's here. Yusuf and I can do basic surveillance on him while you to go to New York for Finnik and Hong Kong for Brown. I'll take care of my business here. I've met a few people over the past three years. I'll be fine. I can get any charges taken care of. But it _will_ take some time. So we can stay here."

He shared a quick grimaces with Eames, but both folded quickly. She was right. It was the best plan of action when considering where they were at now and the next move they had to make.

"But don't tell Saito. Please. I'm the weak link as it is. It will get even worse if he finds out about the building."

This time Eames didn't agree. "Presuming he's a fool. No, Ariadne. Not telling him is a unhealthy mistake. He will find out. Better if he finds out first from you."

"But –"

"Do like Eames says. Don't get yourself in more trouble than you have to."

Her chin dropped further. But she nodded. Ten minutes later she ended her call to Saito with a pinched look on her face. She brushed off any effort to console her.

Three hours later she was locked somewhere with a building full of police officers, and he and Eames were on a plane pointed at North America.

He hadn't kissed her again.

0000000000000

I'm so sorry for this embarrassment of a chapter. School's been crazy and NaNoWriMo just got going. I'm focusing on original work for the next couple of days. Again, please accept my apologies and I hope to get back to this asap.


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